Popcorn Dreams a short story by Broderick Grimm™

My friend, Perry Lake, gave me some feedback on the original story I posted. Below is the revision I came up with based on his suggestions.

Hope you like.

This is another in the series Parakeets of Doom™ written for the writers group of the same name. This was written by one of my other pen names, Broderick Grimm™. While Jason Dowls™ is a wide-eyed innocent writer of harmless humor, Broderick Grimm™ can only be described as extremely strange.



The door was still closing when Rudy started feeling sick. The smiling face of the little girl named Nancy slowly disappearing as it shut. The feeling was small at first, a tiny nag at the pit of his stomach which gradually grew stronger; then stronger.

“Perhaps a glass of milk,” he thought. He stood up from the over stuffed chair and headed to the refrigerator. It was a tiny apartment he rented from a gibbous man with a surly attitude who lived in, and never seemed to leave, the basement. Nancy was the landlord’s youngest daughter. Peggy, whom Rudy had quickly fallen in love with, was the oldest. Rudy met her the first day he moved in and they had been inseparable ever since.

Rudy grabbed his stomach as the pain lurched from the pit of his stomach up through his chest like a sledge-hammer. He leaned against the fridge, not opening it.

As his pain subsided his mind turned to Nancy. What had she wanted? Why had she burst into his apartment with youthful enthusiasm and a huge bag of popcorn which she insisted upon sharing with as she radiated preteen charm all over the room. “Going to be thirteen next month,” she informed him. “We’ve got to be friends because Peggy’s the bestest sister in the whole world and I can’t live without her.” Rudy listened to her chatter, dutifully shared her popcorn, and shooed her out the door.

Now he was getting sicker and sicker. There was a quick chill that rode up his back from tail bone to neck bone. Behind came a complete lack of breath. “Air,” he said. Milk forgotten he lurched to the window, scrabbling his fingernails on it as he forced it fully open. Rudy wished Peggy were here. Her presence would help. Just thinking about her helped. Her gentle hands, her tender eyes, her wicked little smile, the dimples that always chimed in. The second time he saw her was when she came to collect the rent. By then he was hopelessly in love with her.

Rudy, seldom forward with women, induced her to stay and talk. Peggy told him she was not really the oldest daughter. The oldest daughter had died tragically on her wedding day, and her father had bolted himself into the basement flat and had not left it since. There was another daughter, younger than Peggy, older than Nancy, who ran away from home a week after the tragedy. Peggy didn’t give a lot of details. Rudy, thinking the subject must be too painful for her to talk about, did not mention it again. He thought it odd she never mentioned her mother, but that wasn’t the kind of question you asked the woman you wanted to marry, and perhaps that subject was also very painful for her.

With an effort he leaned his head out the window, drawing in deep breaths of air.

“Don’t lean out too far,” piped a tiny voice. “You will fall and there will be no saving you.” Rudy decided the voice must belong to a little girl. But there was no little girl out here. He looked. Upwards was nothing but a couple of birds. Below. He looked down. Down and down he looked. Five floors down. There would be no surviving that. He was dizzy. He was nauseous. Leaning out the window was a stupid thing to do. Why in hell was he doing it? Where did that voice come from? Was it his subconscious telling him to get back inside? Some psychic thing going on?

He pushed himself back inside. He almost fell over backwards. He grabbed the refrigerator door. He almost pulled the refrigerator down on himself. He stood as best he could, hanging onto the door, looking around the room. No one was here. No little girl. No one.

“You are going to die, you know.” The tiny voice came from outside the window. It displayed a mildly interested tone.

Rudy looked around. He knew the voice could not come from outside the window. But when he looked around the room there was no one. The little girl offering popcorn to him. Only thirteen years old. Could she be on drugs at such a young age? Had she spiked the popcorn with LSD or something worse? Was he hallucinating? She looked so sweet and innocent. She could not possibly given him popcorn loaded with…. Loaded with what?

“You don’t have to die.”

Rudy spotted a parakeet upon the window ledge. A plain green bird sat upon the eggshell white window sill. It eyed him in a flat, scholarly way. Looking out to the sky Rudy spotted what he had thought was a swarm of pigeons but which he now realized was a swarm of parakeets.

“Parakeets don’t talk,” he said.

“Parakeets of Doom can do many things,” said the bird, ruffling its wings, showing black undersides, “and some we do not do.”

“Such as?”

“A parakeet of doom does not die of natural causes for one thing. A parakeet of doom can talk and a parakeet of doom can kill.”

“Are you going to kill me then, little bird?” He asked with a chuckle, thinking his hallucination had taken on a bizarre twist of humor.

“No. You will die in any case. But you can become one of us, you can become one of the flock, if you do us a small favor.”

“Sorry, girl parakeets do not turn me on and I have no wish to spend eternity lusting after human women who would have no interest in a tiny feathered lover.” A dizzy spell took Rudy and he had to hold onto the refrigerator door swinging it wide open. The air from the opened fridge was horribly cold on his right side.

The parakeet nodded wisely.

Rudy lurched to the window sill again. The parakeet flew inside, feathers snapping, and perched on the back of the old green sofa. Rudy looked down. There was the little girl, perfectly healthy and sound, skipping along, still eating popcorn. She looked up at him once, waved, and ran down the street.

The parakeet, the persistent fantasy he could not shake, continued the conversation from before.

“When the moon shines full and bright upon a starless night a parakeet of doom can love and be loved in return.”

Rudy felt a chill though the day was hot. He fumbled to the closet, leaving the refrigerator door open. He put on his great long coat that he saved for the vilest winter storms. It billowed about him and hung to his knees. He had to keep hold of reality. Whether he was under the influence of drugs or poison did not matter. He had to keep his mind in check and act logically. As he put the coat on, leaning with his head pressed against the wall to stay balanced he heard feathers beating the wind. A lot of feathers. How could one bird sound like a flock? But then he was distracted as the huge cloak seemed to envelope him. It was as if the coat softly caressed him and filled up with downy warm softness.

The landlord could control his daughter. The landlord could help him. If there were an antidote as his fantasy suggested then he might know of it as well.

“Peggy’s older sister fell in love with a parakeet of doom and her father killed him, and her, and one hundred other keets as well. That is why he hides in the basement. Because we cannot reach him there.”

Rudy’s heart jumped and slammed hard into his chest over and over. “Oh, my dear God.” Rudy frantically thought. The fantasy parakeet was growing even more insane, if that were possible.

“Will you shut up? I’m trying to think.” Crazy talk. Why would the landlord kill his own daughter? Rudy knew he had to be careful or the hallucination would take over and he would lose all control over reality. Logic, reason, and control. That was all he had to save himself now.

“Thinking will not save your life. Listening to me might.” The parakeets chirping voice was cheerful. A plain green bird on a plain green sofa. Almost disappearing, a bird chameleon. For a minute Rudy’s world was filled with green. A green lump on green.

Rudy felt good he had cajoled his fantasy enough so it would leave him alone. Then he headed down to the basement to confront Peggy’s father, the landlord. Damn he was cold. First he put on a huge overcoat. The one he wore in the worst storms of the year. It felt ruffly as he put it on. He looked around to see why it felt so odd. Why did it seem to be so full? Why did it feel so ruffly and soft? He did not remember that. For a second he thought he heard a flutter, but it must have been the green parakeet. It was no longer on the sofa.

The only part of the basement accessible to the curious was a nine foot by eight foot room that contained three doors: one to the stairs, one to the elevator, and one massively strong door with an intercom on the left side. He pushed the intercom button. This simple act required both hands.

He tried to form the right words in his mind. Before he could do so a voice crackled from an overhead speaker. “what do you want?”

“I am Peggy’s fiance, Rudy…”

“I know who you are. I see you on the monitor. Why are you here?”

Rudy held onto the wall. He was shivering.

“I’m freezing,” he said.

“I see that. You are dressed for winter.”

“It is not helping”

“I see that too,” said the voice. It was cheerful. Rudy wondered why all the creatures in this fantasy had cheerful voices. The bird and now the landlord.

“I just ate some popcorn your youngest daughter gave me. I think there was something wrong with it. I need help. You have to do something.” Rudy noticed his voice was no longer steady.

The only reply was the clang of a buzzer. He pushed open the door. The new room reminded him of an airlock in a spaceship. One door led in, the one he had come through, and another door faced him at the end of a short hallway. He felt woozy and placed a hand on each wall to steady himself. The door at the far end was locked.

“Please let me in. I can’t stand much longer.”

“I can see that. I better let you in before I have to drag you in.” A buzzer sounded again. Rudy pushed the door open with all of his strength. He almost fell into the room. The door closed quickly behind him. The long great-coat he was wearing felt absurdly heavy and he had to resist the urge to open it and let it fall to the floor. So far he had been able to keep his hallucinations at bay. He wanted to keep it that way. He was still cold. He was shivering. It was as though the cold was coming from inside of him, resisting the soft warmth of the coat. Oddly the coat seemed to be generating a lot of warmth.

The landlord. Rudy forced himself to remember it was Peggy’s father. He was a large man. Taller than Rudy and much heavier. The kind of fat that looks capable, not soft. He sat in a recliner that looked designed for one purpose, to hold him.

“You have to do something,” Rudy told him.

“I am doing something,” The landlord smiled kindly, “I’m watching you die.” His voice as casual as if he had said, “Good morning.”

Rudy squinched his eyes closed trying to drive away the return of the fantasy that had been plaguing him. He knew he could not have heard the man say what he had thought he heard him say. It could not be.

“You are not a murderer,” Rudy intoned automatically.

This elicited uncontrolled laughter. “I’m not a murderer,” the big man, the landlord, Peggy’s father, repeated.

There was a silence as the two men looked at each other.

“Of course I’m a murderer, you interloping idiot.”

Rudy felt his heart slam in his chest again. The sheer force almost knocking him over. In trying to steady himself Rudy reached for, and knocked over, a floor lamp. Putting his arms straight out in front him he braced himself against the wall. Turning his head to the right he could face the landlord. He was careful not to crush or crumple his long coat. He had to maintain his hold on reality, keep his hallucinations in control.

“I don’t understand.”

“Simple. No one takes what is mine away from me. The first people I ever killed were my parents when I learned they were going to give my inheritance to my brother. It was called an unfortunate automobile accident.

“Then of course I had to do away with my brother. It was called a suicide in remorse at the death of his parents.”

“What has that to do with me?”

“I told you. No one takes what is mine. A man tried to take my wife from me. They were going to run away together. I killed him. My wife knew I had done something and she was going to divorce me. She was going to take my daughters away from me.” The landlord took a glass from a stand beside his chair and took a sip, licking his lips.”You killed her?”

“No. Yes. I created this basement for her. I kept her locked in here, but alive. She couldn’t take the solitude. She just faded away. Not really my fault.”

Rudy started to slide down the wall.

“My oldest daughter had a fiance. A man who wanted marry her and take her away from me. When she found out I killed him she joined some supernatural cult. A real doozie. She was going to marry a bird just to spite me. I pretended to put on a wedding. I blew them to hell. But not all of them. Some lived. That is why I never leave this basement.”

Rudy began to slide down the wall. He was shaking so badly it felt as though he were in the middle of an earthquake.

“I think I’m dying.”

“Of course you are dying. I have to thank you for coming down here so I could watch. I’d never have guessed you would be so smart as to figure out I had poisoned the popcorn or so stupid as to come to me for help.” His smile was so friendly it was almost affectionate.

“What about your middle daughter. The one between Peggy and your youngest?”

“My only failure in life. She actually did run away. I think she figured something out. She was quick and I was slow and by then I did not dare leave this blasted basement. Too bad.”

Rudy crumpled to the floor. As he did so his coat fell open and the parakeets bunched underneath his great long coat, who had been gripping the inside tightly, silently, forming a thick inner lining, began to fly out into the room. They had flown up his coat as he had put it on. He had been so drugged, so occupied with the sheer act of standing upright, he had not realized what they had done.

As he lost consciousness Rudy reached out with his arms and began to flap them. Now he was flying with feathered wings, joining the flock circling the room.

That was when the landlord began to scream.

© 2015 All Rights Reserved


Off a Wooing Daddy — A Short Story by Jason Dowls ™

This is a story I promised a friend of mine. I decided to publish it here rather than give him a hard copy. I like to think it is worth sharing.


I have been writing as Jason Dowls™ since I  was thirteen. This story was written for a writer’s group called Parakeets of Doom™.  This group started out on a forum, Writers Write Forum. WritersWrite.com still exists but I don’t believe there is a forum attached to it any more. 




I’m not into fathers. I’m not into my own father let alone anyone else’s. I’m certainly not into meeting them, although I more or less had to meet my own father. Sort of an inevitable part of the process: You get born, doctor slaps your butt, “That’s Mommy. Here’s Daddy.”

Meeting her father was not on my list of priorities, it was on hers. When you have a girlfriend her list of priorities somehow becomes yours as well. An inevitable part of the girlfriend process: Meet girl, kiss girl, “Here’s your list of new priorities.”

It wasn’t to be a simple affair where you walked up, shook hands, and answered stupid questions you had lain awake all night rehearsing stupid answers to. Like, “What are your intentions toward my daughter.” You can’t reply “Well I thought we’d start by getting naked and cuddling a lot.” you have to say something beguiling like, “Get married and name our first grandchild after you, sir.” Gently skip over the concept that somewhere along the line you would have to get naked and cuddle a lot.

To make it worse her father was one of these big macho mid western types with big hairy hands and a grizzly bear growl for a voice who had seriously thought about becoming a pro boxer at one point in his life. The most macho thing I had ever done in my life was when a guy like him looked at me cross-eyed: I ran.

Our meeting was to be a day long event: we were to go pheasant hunting together. Great. I’m so well versed in this area of masculinity I had to be told you use a shot-gun for this. I was trying to borrow a friend’s twenty-two. Like this information would make a real difference. I was lucky to know the stock goes against the shoulder and the barrel points away from you. I’d be lucky not to shoot myself in the foot. In fact going hunting with me as a partner should be listed as attempted suicide. I’d rather go hunting with a known serial killer than myself. At least I would know he was trying to kill me. There wouldn’t be the anguish of uncertainty. Only I had to be very careful. He was after all her father and I didn’t want to have to explain to her that I shot at what I thought was a pheasant mating call before I realized it was her father breaking wind.

The thought crossed my mind that hunting accidents do happen and that it might be the perfect way to get rid of an unacceptable potential son-in-law. When I mentioned this to my friend who loaned me the shot-gun his only advice was, “Don’t get between him and what he is shooting at.”

“What if he is shooting at me?” That elicited no reply.

To make it worse that was the night she decided to offer me her virginity, or whatever she had left of it. After two months of trying to get her to spend the night with me how could I tell her this was the one thing I did not want to do on the night before meeting her father. I wanted to meet him with a virgin face, so to speak.

At any rate the next morning just before daylight when we met him in the cabin for breakfast she fairly glowed. I felt like crawling under a rock and hiding. My cheeks felt like they were on fire. I wondered if he could tell. If he noticed he gave no sign of it aside from one speculative look he gave his daughter.

When he shook my hand I felt the bones on my newly designated trigger finger slowly separate. People with hands that big and strong should have them registered as lethal weapons and should not be allowed to use them on others in any form. Not even a handshake.

I suffered this minor assault and we headed out to hunt. The three of us set out. I had not expected her to come along as well.

We had not gone far when he had spotted a bird. It was sitting on a tree limb and it was not a pheasant. I could tell. I had looked at a big book of pictures of birds. Not the Playboy kind either. The real feathered variety. Further I had been instructed to watch small bushes as these were the chief hiding places of pheasants. It was in fact a parakeet. I could tell because its picture was in the same book.

He shot it anyway.

It fell off the tree limb. I rushed over too it. “Stop,” I cried. “That could be somebody’s pet.” When I reached the tiny bird it was still alive. It did not look as though it had been hurt seriously, just stunned. I scooped it up.

“Give it here,” he growled. He held out a huge hand, palm up. I was surprised to note his palms did not have hair on them,  as well as the backs. Perhaps he had been a very good boy as a child, though I somehow doubted it.

“You can’t hurt a parakeet,” I said. “They are just innocent household pets. It may belong to some little kid.”

“They are evil creatures,” he growled. “That is not just any parakeet. That is an unnatural being that should never exist. We have to kill it quickly.”

“Daddy use to be a preacher,” she said. “He knows about such things.”

I looked from father to daughter and saw the same fanatic light shine in both of their eyes. “Oh, my God,” I thought. “What have I stumbled into? Some kind of a cult of bird haters?” They both held shotguns, angled slightly away from me, but generally pointed in my direction.

“I’m a pretty girl,” The small ball of warm feathers chirped in my hand.

He reached out to grab the bird out of my hand. I drew it back. He started to bring the barrel of the shotgun up. I did what I have always done when faced with dangerous situations, especially those that boded extreme violence upon my person: I turned tail and ran.

A shot rang out over my head. I think I acquired a new part in my hair. Leaves fell from the tree above me.

“Daddy, he is my boyfriend,” she screamed.

“He’s a damned parakeet lover,” her father screamed back.

Somehow I was under the impression that my attempt to convince him I would be a great match for his daughter had gone dreadfully wrong. I had gone into this hoping to convince him I was worthy of protecting his daughter from dragons if the case need arise. Somehow I had wound up trying to protect a stupid little bird — from him.

And we had only been at this for an hour. No telling what I could accomplish if I spent the whole day with him.

The parakeet in my hand attempted to spread its wings and fly. It was a wasted effort. Its left wing was obviously broken and after it uttered a pained sound it collapsed in my hand.

I couldn’t turn this helpless little feathered thing over to him to be killed for no reason.

The voices of father and daughter were behind me arguing. At one point he shouted, “Death to all Parakeets of Doom and all who harbor them.” The sentence did not make a lot of sense but it sounded ominous enough to encourage me to run even faster.

I shoved the semiconscious bird into my coat pocket. It poked its head out and announced, “I’m a pretty girl,” in its squeaky little bird voice.

Mimicking its high-pitched voice I replied with full honesty, “I’m a scared boy.”

I could hear brush crashing behind me.


“Shut up.”

It occurred to me he knew the woods better than I did and I had no idea where I was headed. To keep running around out here was to either run head long into him or to be headed off by him.

I quickly climbed a tree. Taking the bird out of my pocket I put it in the crook of two limbs. The bird appeared to be barely conscious and I rated its chances of surviving as almost nil. It seemed stupid to jeopardize my future love life… Hell, what was I thinking of. Jeopardize my life. My life. Over a bird I didn’t even know and would die anyway.

This had not been one of my most brilliant mornings.

The crashing was louder. They were closer. I was trying to think of something to do. Anything. When from nowhere a flock of parakeets appeared over head. It was as though they looked at me. Looked at their injured comrade, then looked back at me.

I jumped out of the tree just as they attacked. They reached the ground just as I did, a black, thick cloud of birds, darting and pecking indiscriminately. Somehow these blasted birds thought I had hurt their friend and they were after revenge in the worst way.

I screamed like a little girl. An act for which I make no apology. I needed a big strong daddy to come and rescue me.

What I got was a shotgun blast in my direction.

“Daddy, he is in there.”

“Better dead than feathered.” was his oblique reply.

Somehow things had gone terribly, terribly wrong. I was no longer sure just how it had happened. I had somehow gone from trying to woo her father to being the primary target in a hunt from hell.

I did the only thing a sane person could do in a world gone mad. I ran.

Above and behind me flew an unholy flock of parakeets with the apparent objective of killing me. Behind them ran my girlfriend and her father firing volleys of shotgun pellets in my direction with what seemed to be the same objective.

We must have made a pretty strange sight to any normal hunters out looking for pheasant.

I made it to the river bank and dived in. It seemed like the only safe place to go. The problem was it was only safe so long as I could hold my breath. Sooner or later I would have to come up.

I put that prospect off as long as possible. I swam as far downstream and toward the far bank as possible.

When I surfaced parakeets were swarming everywhere. To the north I heard shotguns firing in a steady rhythm. I wasn’t sure what they were shooting at or what their intentions were but it was not doing me any good. I was a goner. I had to get my breath before I could go back under water safely and they could prevent that easily.

They seemed to be expressing their opinion of me in a rather direct, if crude manner. The cloud of feathered demons above me was suddenly raining bird poop.

I recognized one bird as it dive bombed me and landed with a heavy thud upon my head. It was the one I had attempted to rescue. It spread its wings out above my head as best it was able and began making noises to the flock above. Shortly they dispersed. They may have headed back north but I did not hear any more shotgun fire.

I climbed out of the water, freezing cold and dripping wet with the parakeet sitting upon my finger in front of my face.

“Looks like my other plans have been canceled. Guess you are going to be my date for tonight.”

It pecked me lightly on the nose with its beak. “I’m a pretty girl,” it said. Then it rubbed the top of its little feathered head on my nose in a birdly imitation of an Eskimo kiss.

With a sigh I put the little parakeet in my jacket pocket. Hell, I’d had other dates that had begun less auspiciously than that. So long as she doesn’t insist I meet her dad.

Copyright 2004 by Michael Berryman, all rights reserved.

Our neighborhood? The Ferguson Fiasco! Poorly played by just about everybody.

So I’ve been hearing a lot about people tearing up their own neighborhood. Mostly negative about those people who would shit in their own backyard.

Now I have to confess I have never seen Michael Brown’s neighborhood. I’ve never lived in Ferguson. To my knowledge I have never met a single person who lives or has lived there.

But I’ve been told it is a poor neighborhood that is predominantly Black. And that sounds like home to me. I went to a school that boasted eleven hundred ninety–eight Blacks, seven Puerto Ricans, three Chinese, and me. As a half–breed Native American Indian with blue eyes and blond hair I served two purposes: I was both the token Indian and the token Honky.

I’ve heard some white people say some of their best friends were black. Well all my friends were Black, best or otherwise, and all my enemies were also Black. That is just the way it was.

Now we know what I’m talking about lets look at that neighborhood.

It was our neighborhood by convention of language and culture. We lived there.

But was it our neighborhood in the same sense as the white people’s neighborhood belonged to them?

Not one person in my neighborhood owned a piece of property in that neighborhood. Everybody rented. And we weren’t renting houses, we were renting run down apartments in tenement buildings. We rented from people who lived in nice white neighborhoods where everybody owned their own house.

Not one person who lived in “our” neighborhood owned or ran a business in “our” neighbor hood. If any of us had tried they would have run afoul of zoning laws, licensing laws, health codes, and what not. When one man in the neighborhood was caught working on someone’s car he was told, “People down town pay fees to the city to protect themselves from competition from people like you.” My mother did baby sitting and took in laundry, cooked, sewed people’s clothing, and did house cleaning. In those days anybody could baby sit. You did not have to be state certified or have a license. Not sure about her doing the laundry. Cooking, sewing, and house cleaning were all under the radar.

Not one person in the neighborhood was employed by any of the businesses that were in the neighborhood.

Not one person in the neighborhood had any say about zoning laws, parking rules, or anything else in the neighborhood we lived in. We had no say in the running or “our” neighborhood. Why? Because we were renters. We did not own any land. The zoning commission, the city fathers, the town council, did not listen to, or want to hear from us. We did not own any land. they only listened to the people who owned the property we lived on. They only listened to people whose only concern was profiting from our neighborhood but would never deign to live there.

So while it was “Our neighborhood” in the linguistic sense, was it our neighborhood in the sense that we had a stake in it?

Was it our neighborhood in the sense that we loved it and cared about it?

Was it our neighborhood because we chose to be there?

Hell no!

I currently live in a small town, I don’t think it is even incorporated, in a mixed race neighborhood where some people own and some rent and everyone around our house is friendly and watches out for each other. This is where I am. But I remember where I was, who I was with, and how we felt.

Is there a solution?

I believe there is.

There are businesses that are employee owned.

There are gated communities and condominiums that are resident owned.

These work for the people who do them, but they are largely limited to those who start out financially set up. People buy houses in gated communities. People buy condos. Employee owned businesses are initially set up by a group of people who can pool together enough money to buy it, or who can somehow get banking support.

I don’t see why these same concepts could not be applied to poor neighborhoods.

I think if all the money that had been poured into building projects that shoved the poor out of sight had been spent on putting people in charge of, and owning, the communities they lived in, then we would not have the same situation we have today.

(c) 2014, All Rights Reserved.

Nope, I am not.

To those whom it concerns, or not, as the case may be, and to the two who asked me: I am not the executor of Pepper’s estate, assuming she has an estate to execute. My ability to concentrate is seriously impaired at the minute. I am not able to focus on things to be read very well. It is a job I am currently not able to perform. Nor am I in possession of any will that would declare her wishes.

Thank you.



(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved.



No, I am not in a good mood. Here is why:

Dear Sir,

Our condolences. We are sorry for the loss of your wife.

By the way we have been informed that your insurance declines to pay her hospital bill. This is only a year and half of your annual wages and a bargain at the price.

Please pay at once or we will be forced to take further legal action.

Okay, I put it in the drawer with all the other medical bills for my late wife the insurance declines to pay.

I tried to put my grumpy, depressed mood in there with it, but it’s just too damn big to fit.



(c) 2014, all rights reserved.

How to be stupid and ignorant regardless how intelligent you are.

Some people are stupid and ignorant by accident, even though they may have way above average intelligence. Most of these people simply do not realize they can think about a subject differently, or that there is more options available than they are given.

But some people are stupid and ignorant by design.

Most of these people belong to one Ism or another. The two largest at the minute being the Religious and Scientific communities. One refusing to think about anything that is not in their church’s doctrine and the other those who refuse to think about anything that is not firmly grounded in their scientific orthodoxy of choice.

A lot of people do not realize there are, and always have been, scientific factions that are just as antagonistic and divisive to each other as religious factions are. But it is true.

There are others.

One of them being the “Aliens Did It” group. They start out by asking you to by open-minded and consider the possibility that Space Aliens have visited Earth in the past.

Okay, I’ll consider that.

Then they show you evidence that they call proof. There is a lot of it and it is pretty impressive. I’ve personally come to the conclusion Space Aliens have probably visited Earth at some time.

But once you go that far you are suddenly expected by the True Believers that no major event, and few minor events in history have happened without Alien Intervention. Because the True Believers themselves refuse to consider ANY alternate explanation of any event that does not involve Alien Intervention.

The only way they will accept God is if He is an Alien and the only way they will accept science is if an Alien inspired the Scientist.

It is this refusal to consider alternative explanations that creates and maintains willful Ignorance and Stupidity.

Einstein refused to consider Quantum Physics.

Maybe the Aliens just didn’t push him quite hard enough.

Oh well.



© 2013 all rights reserved

Doctor Who

I have a friend. A person who is not a fool. They believe that I am highly intelligent. A claim I do not subscribe too, for I, of all people, know just how stupid and ignorant I can be. Though I admit being thought of as intelligent gives me a feeling inside my stomach and chest that no other experience has ever given me.

The problem is they cannot understand how someone as “intelligent” as (They believe) I am, can enjoy a TV show as sub intellectual as Doctor Who. Actually I’ve been a known associate of Whovians since the late 1960’s although I never heard the term until the ‘90’s.

The Person points out that I write a blog as the Map Thinker™ that rips into philosophical concepts as though they were Swiss Cheese. While Doctor Who is a simplistic, highly unbelievable situation filled with a time and space traveling humanoid with a taste for companions who are young, sexy, intelligent — Totally desirable — And infatuated with him.

His Arch Enemies are the Daleks, pronounced Dahlicks.

They are almost idiotically simplistic. They are almost monoverbal. You can pick out the Whovians (Those people who are to Doctor Who what Trekkies are to Star Trek). By simply walking into a room and saying in a squaky voice “Exterminate. Exterrrrminnnate.” These Daleks show none of the complex traits “Modern, Sophisticated, Intelligent” people require of a “well constructed” villain.  They have no socially redeemable qualities.

So what do I find so captivating about this Brittish import?

Doctor Who keeps coming back to the most important question a human being can contemplate, whatever your philosophy is, whatever your beliefs are, whatever your religion is. Regardless, or irregardless, if you choose, of what your religion is.

What does it mean to be human?

Questions pop up about individuality, freedom, being true to oneself…

When told “We were only doing our jobs.” Doctor Who replies, “With that sentence you have lost the right to address me.” (Well, my memory isn’t perfect. He may have worded it slightly different.)

But the next one I remember perfectly.

When asked the pivotal question: “Are people really slaves it they are unaware that they are slaves?”

No philosophical debate.

The Doctor simply replies, “Yes.”

Alternative What?

l was in a store the other day. The kind that has a pharmacy in the back. A woman was dealing with a teenaged girl. She said, “It will only be five minutes.”

Teenaged girl: “I don’t wanna stand around un wait 5 minutes.”

I was thinking what an impoverished inner life the girl must have that she cannot entertain herself for five minutes. I could spend five minutes browsing any aisle in any store just to see something I had not noticed before. How poor the imagination of someone who cannot spend five to twenty minutes perusing a thought they had not had time to finish in the past.

What I said, with a chuckle, to my own (adult) grand-daughter, who was with me was, “If that were one of mine I’d make her stand in a corner for twenty minutes.  Next time five minutes would seem like nothing.”

My granddaughter laughed.

The woman must have heard me because she asked, “How would I make her do that?”

Teenaged girl: “Make me do what?”

The woman: “Make you stand in a corner for twenty minutes.”

Teenaged girl: “Nobody is gonna make me stand anywhere. Just try it.”

The woman shrugged and we moved on.

My grand-daughter said, “She’s right. My kid just started kindergarten and he knows I can’t make him stand in the corner or do anything else he doesn’t want to do.”

So I spent the next twenty minutes mulling over the question, “If there is no alternative punishment to the “alternative” punishment — Is there any punishment?”

I’m glad I’m not raising children any more.

If any of mine act up and refuse alternative punishment they can go home.

No more 7 Days a Week.

So I am back.

I will start blogging again.

Right now my thoughts are simple.

How nice to have a weekend to sit under a tree and day-dream.

I can relax and think about what I am going to blog about next weekend.

In the mean time, take some time out to relax. To dream. To day-dream.

Keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground all the time may get the dishes done, the car polished, the lesson learned, and the grass raked (Yes, it is that time of year) but it will never make you an Einstein.

There was a man who knew how to Day-Dream.



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Seven Days a Week

When you work seven days a week the days blend together. What day is it today? Does it matter? Why would it matter? You aren’t doing anything different today than you did yesterday and you aren’t going to do anything different tomorrow than you are doing today.

Last year about half way through our seven-day a week stint a woman in the break area told us, “The next person who tells me ‘Thank God it’s Friday’ I am going to deck them.”

Even though you work seven days a week, things still need to be done. Like shopping, weed eating…

Well it is the middle of summer so weed eating and watering have to be done twice as much.

Putting things off till the weekend just doesn’t work any more.

So you come home from work with the choices in front of you. Take a nap. Take a shower. Do chores.

If you find yourself waking up early, which sometimes happens, well, hell, might as well do a quick blog.

Have a good day, have a good week, have a good summer, what ever day it is.