Crowd control via the dirty dity

If you look closely, you can see a brown goo covering his lower extremities

I witnessed first hand the loophole in controlling the crowd at a River Cats game, with the effectiveness of communism without the overt subjugation.  This loophole is in the form of something less like a loop and more like a splattering of defecation.  By crapping one's pants, they can scatter a crowd very efficiently.  Without considering risk/reward ratios, or whether or not it's viable to scatter the crowd with such a technique, considering the likely discomfort to follow, allow me to set the scene...

The memory is somehow both hazy and crystal clear.  It begins with myself, Tor-man, aunt Becky, Jeremy, sister Kelly, and brother Buzz (Who was formerly the evil brother, but has now become known as the brother of light.  The domestication of Buzz indeed).  Sometime during the early to mid innings of the game, I volunteered  to make a run to the snack bar.  Fortunately, for me, there were few who took advantage of my offer, and I would therefore have few items to carry back.  Unfortunately, for some poor lady, her trip which coincided with mine concerned a far heavier load.

While in line at one of the ubiquitous concessions that line the walkway, I observed the game with my body oriented somewhat away from the outer rim where the concession lay and toward the field.  As usual, I was small talking with the guy next to me in the line, "how 'bout these lines, huh?"  "Ya.  There are lines".  So, we had the nuts and bolts down.  Then, as I noticed the ambient sounds of the walkway shift abruptly, where the steady hum of small talk morphed into hushed, urgent murmurs, I smelled something.  Something pungent. 

Without considering the repercussions and before turning to face the situation and assess appropriately, I let out, "What the eff?!"  The phrase was enunciated in such a way as to express maximum disbelief and incredulity.  It would appear that the disbelief and incredulity were entirely credible, if still unbelievable.

Creeping along the wall with hesitancy, while groping for some kind of bearing on it's bricked texture was a sight.  If I am a portrait of a life in free fall, then this was the picture of defeat.  So complete was the utter shame, embarrassment, and some permeation of a will to simply vanish was this woman that I half believed she would, through sheer force of will, spontaneously combust.  This poor woman was basically ferrying herself, like a wounded airplane going from one airport to another for repairs, flying at minimum speed, with the flaps out, and landing gear deployed so as to be prepared for a sudden emergency landing.

As she moved, she displaced the crowd.  Effectively.  If she were rather than a woman, Linus, but with Ebola surrounding her rather than mere dirt, while at the same time being a completely rabid dog that were actually an untamed Bengal tiger, it would be hard to imagine the crowd being displaced with any more efficacy.  To put it simply; people got out of her way.  And to put it more clearly, people wouldn't even occupy the space that she had passed through.  She left a vacuous wake behind her that was impenetrable. 

 

She likely could have walked out onto the field and into the batter's box.  And no one would have stopped her. I'd bet that she could have taken the entire game hostage without even a complaint.  And upon reflection, I'm quite sure that they not only shut down the western wing of the concessions, but also called the game on account of grossness and health hazard.  Now that I think about it, that's when they quarantined Raley Field.  Ya, that's when the great quarantine of 2001 began.  The quarantine that only was lifted after they tore the stadium down and rebuilt it.  They did it quietly, so don't be alarmed if you don't remember.

After calming down and a few more expletives on my part, I continued my small talk with my neighbor in line.  "Guess the chili didn't agree with her."  Zinga linga ding dong!  But seriously, the rest of it happened, and I might have actually said something like that.  Tasteless.

Blinded by a bullet and Santana to James Brown

Today was a symphony of the ironic, unexpected, cliche, po flow, and subtle humor.  I'm not sure where to start and unlike most posts, I kinda want to get this right, but I know there is no way to do it justice.  I suppose the beginning would be an appropriate default position from which to...begin.

For quite a while, a friend of my dad's and mine, and myself have been trying to get together on a musical project.  He has invited me to the Mecha club in Broderick (The bad part of West Sac, you know, as opposed to those good parts it's so well known for) to listen to his band gig as well as many rehearsals.  For one reason or another it hadn't worked out.  We tentatively planned for yesterday, but something came up.  When our conversation today started to take the familiar tone of "let's do it another time", I put my foot down and said we had to get together today.  "Ok, I'll pick you up in twenty minutes," he said.  And the day began.

This man, Junior Vela, is one of the sweetest guys anyone could ever meet.  He picked me up and said, "man, we play like pretty much everything, from James brown to like Selena.  All kinds of crazy stuff."  And he laughed his familiar laugh.  Whether to himself or me I hadn't figured out.  If you've ever seen Cheech and Chong, this operation could have been a scene from one of their movies.  Without the weed.

"Where are we going?" I asked him.

"Oh man, like 10th and...uh...and...D or something.  Why?  You in a hurry?"

"Huh?  Oh no man, just wondering what part of town we're headed to."

"We gotta go by Clark's and he's gonna follow us to Dave's.  Clark played guitar for Sly and the Family Stone.  He knew your dad."

"This guy played with Sly?  Man, he must be something."

"Ya man.  Me and your dad knew Sly and them well (I knew their trumpet player Cynthia used to call the house all the time, but I assumed it was because my dad had super mack game and she just wanted some of that Bobby Boogaloo).  All kinds of people.  But Clark is playing drums with us."

So we get to Clarks pad, which is an apartment, and it's clear that he squandered that 'Sly' cheese he must have made back in the day.  Nothing wrong with the place, but it's not the pad Mark Whalberg had in Rock Star.  We drive to Dave's in the Meth capitol of the Milky Way galaxy-North Highlands.  Along the way, I noticed while trying to keep track of Clark that he is nowhere to be found in the rear view.  Junior says, "man, he's way back there.  I know he's complaining about my driving.  Slow poke."  Junior sped up.

Anyway, we get to Dave's, where Junior tattoos some secret code on the garage door.  He tells me, "This is his old lady's house."  Didn't seem strange to me.  Until Dave comes out and declares, "this is my wife's house, but she lets me rehearse here."  Oooohhh.  It's his old lady's house, but they aren't together.  And she lets him practice there anyway.  Nice of her.  So we're in the Meth capitol of the western hemisphere with the guitar player from Sly, who refuses to play guitar, Junior who plays the guitar like he's ringing a bell, but can't read and is only minutely capable of identifying the chords he's playing, a bassist who has an old lady that he doesn't live with but allows him to use the garage, and me, a meathead looking dude with a Raider's beanie on and hasn't shaved in two weeks.  A motley crew to be sure, but as it turns out-A sweet one.

Without going over every song, let's just say it was an eclectic mix of the nostalgic, contemporary, American and Latin music.  Dave consults a binder that's thick enough to be the maintenance manual for a '72 Buick and begins, "I could fall in love by Selena," followed by "that Santana tune, black Magic woman" and "La Bamba" as well as "Let's get it started...by Pink", and many others.  And it sounded good.

Finger cymbal, for when I'm not playing keys

So we're playing a song in Spanish that I'd never heard before.  And it's very pretty and quite catchy.  So I look around the garage for something that I can percuss with.  The best thing I could find were a couple cans of Hunt's tomato paste.  With one in each hand, I brought my hands over my head and clacked them together as if I had cymbals on my fingers.  Junior provided the show stopper.

"Alright man, ya.  It would be better if they were cans of Menudo, but tomato sauce is good too."

He said it with a straight face, and if I had to guess, he was being at least a little bit serious.  I stopped and died briefly.  Then I looked for a fridge to put the remark on.  There was none.  I looked around for some shared laughter from the gang, but apparently this was par for the course.  The rhythm of the cymbal/tomato paste cans was good, and I think everyone would agree that Menudo would be better.  No biggie.

Clark was getting restless and Dave announced that it was time to wrap it up.  We went through 22 songs in an hour and some change.  I learned a little over half of their set list and apparently rehearsed them satisfactorily.  No problem.  We left, but not before some drawn out goodbyes from Clark, Junior, and myself.  There was some reminiscing about my dad.  The flattery is always welcome.

On the way back from the middle of Meth-hood Junior and myself settled in for the ride.  I called a friend of mine, Chuey, to see if he still wanted some help putting the headers on his truck.  He did.  I asked Junior if he could drop me off at Chuey's.  His home, while not the capitol of any noteworthy controlled substances, was at least sovereign territory, like an embassy for a potpourri of mood enhancers.  Somewhere around Florin and Stockton.

Chuey is blind.  Not a little bit.  Not even a lot.  But completely blind.  And I was gonna help him put headers on his truck.  No biggie there.  This wouldn't be the first time Chuey had a bit of a mix up involving himself, cars, and himself in the driver's seat of a car.  Chuey was a television star.  His portfolio includes an appearance on Cops, where upon being pulled over, his friends who were passengers/copilots at the time re-thought their positions and ran.  This left Chuey behind the wheel of a car, by himself, to deal with the cops.  He told our revered police officers, "man I'm blind.  I didn't do nothing."

Chuey was born blind in one eye, but could see in the other.  In an act of wanton street violence, he was shot in his other eye, rendering him completely blind.  Since his total loss of sight, he has come to know the King.  It would appear too that he has sorted out some of those rough areas of his life.  And has left the driving to those who can see.  But that doesn't stop him from buying and tricking out trucks.

I get to his place and there are children of varying ages and disparate levels of kinship terrorizing the place.  And a brother in law named Gordo.  Freaking sweet.  Gordo has a project of his own, namely, replacing window trim that one of Chueys two Pit Bulls/Satan Dog had chewed to the point of needing to be replaced.  After allowing the truck-which had been recently driven-to cool off, we started on our own project.

I had assumed that the term "we" was strictly in the proverbial sense, and that when Chuey said we were going to fix the car, it meant "me" was going to fix the car.  As I was gathering tools to work on the car, Chuey told me, "hey man, I'm gonna need a long extension to get at those bolts."  I assumed, again, that this simply meant that when I got around to that portion of the project, I would need a long extension.  I set the 9/16 socket, ratchet, and extension on the radiator and went back to the tool box for more tools.

I got back to the car and got started on removing the bolts for the exhaust manifold.  About halfway through, I hear Chuey from under the car, "man, the other side is gonna be a little messier".  What the hell?  Dude unbolted the exhaust pipes from the manifold in the time it took me to get some more tools.  And he goes, "you can use that ratchet if you want for a minute, I'm gonna go check on Gordo".  I guess you are.

So, we worked on the car.  Obviously, there were many things he couldn't do because of his disability.  But when the sun went down-and I needed a light-he didn't.  He had no trouble going into the back yard and retrieving one from the shed.  I was again very impressed.

I hesitate to be overly complimentary to him so I won't sound patronizing.  But I am impressed.  I'm impressed not only by his very capable adaptation to life without sight, but also his attitude.  Rather than getting bitter about losing his other eye, Chuey has grown.  His confidence in the King and acceptance of the fact that his own actions are to blame for losing his right eye are impressive.  He is a loving father and husband, fully capable of those duties and beyond exceptional in being a man.  

My foray into Mexican-American culture was wholly gratifying today.  I say that in jest as it didn't occur to me that that's what it was until writing about it.  The fact remains; today I found out that Menudo cans are far superior to tomato sauce cans and that even if it's impossible to view super sweet cameos on cops, the lessons learned in life are more valuable than gold.  And it is the way we deal with the things that happen to us along the way that yield glory, not the things in themselves.  Channel 19!

The fairer...er...uh...nevermind

I'm gonna stay above the fray on this one.  I don't want to give anyone the wrong impression that I'm sexist or a misogynist or anything.  The only thing I'll say is that all of these drivers have something in common.  If you look closely, you'll see gold when one of the astute drivers turns on her windshield wipers after a mishap on a sunny day.  And I've had to resort to the tactics of the fellow who relieved Austin Powers of the responsibility to park her car and literally parked it for someone before.  Let the record show that the views expressed implicitly or otherwise in this video do not reflect the opinions of the purveyor of portrait.

Channel 19 and being a fish

Spinner bait

Channel 19 is the Mexican channel.  Anyone who grew up in or around Sacramento knows this.  Any males who grew up in or around Sacramento know this well.  I am a fish, just biting the shiny lure without giving a second thought.

Flipping through the channels, I noticed something.  Whenever I pass the Spanish speaking channels, I'll flip beyond it mindlessly and then involuntarily reverse direction to get back to the channel.  The women on these channels are so freaking hot that I am powerless against them.  It's actually laughable.  I don't speak Spanish even though I've taken Spanish one about three times, or at least began the semester in Spanish one three times.  I've even recruited Latina girlfriends during these periods to slyly enlist their help with Spanish.  I found that while their ability to speak Spanish is an asset in this respect, their Latina appeal is equally destructive to productive study habits.  Without naming any names, I admit now that in this plot's most recent incarnation, no study session made it past 5 minutes of studying before spiraling out of control into un-study-like activity.

So, when flipping through the channels, I won't even be aware of whether or not I'm going through forward or backward.  However, upon seeing one of these lovely ladies, I instinctively reverse the process by depressing the opposite direction on the channel button.  And I'll change back before the next channel even registers on the screen.  There could literally be the winning powerball numbers being broadcast through some pirate medium for my own benefit on the following channel and I'd never know.

Perhaps the most embarrassing part of this is that I'll watch the Mexican equivalent of Sesame Street-with no fewer than 6 women in mini skirts and halter tops that wouldn't pass the dress code at Hooters-for a minimum of 5 minutes.  It's hella funny that on Univision it doesn't matter if it's a raunchy soap opera or a toothpaste commercial, or an educational program directed at 4-7 year old kids-they all have women who could just as likely be auditioning for an E40 video.

Or weather reports

I'm not endorsing the brilliant marketing tactics and steadfast, inflexible protocol of the Univision producers that mandates each and every woman on screen be an absolute dime.  Nor am I condemning the practice.  This is just a commentary on my reflexive and completely rigid reaction to said protocols.  I'm literally a fish, metaphorically of course, who bites at the bait without even a slight concern for what the consequences may be.  In fact, like the fish, I am not even in a slight way, aware of any connected aftermath.  It's as simple as "ooh!"-chomp.  If ever there were a compelling argument for the natural model of humanity and a lack of free will, this is it.  You could set your clock to it.  I will consistently and reliably turn the channel back to see what channel 19 has for me.

The belly of the beast

(For greater effect, click the video as you read)

With all of my DMV trouble and a flagrant inability to pay them, I got to plotting.  I regarded and discarded schemes at an alarming rate, sometimes juggling two or three at a time.  Each fell like dominoes as they bore scrutiny from the master chess master.  Finally, a twisted scheme formed through the ether.  Infiltration!

I set out on foot to the DMV building on 24th and Broadway with my tools of the trade.  I checked and rechecked my plan along the way.  With butterflies in my stomach, a lingering sense of unease, and a full measure of confident bravado, I climbed the wheel chair ramp to the front entrance.  I looked over both shoulders, subtly.  And I took up a position.

With the front doors in sight, I leaned upon the stuccoed pillar.  I had schemes on my mind and a silent cell phone to my ear, "Oh ya man, I just have to finish work up here at the DMV where I work and am totally not faking like I work here."  Another look around.  It appears my cover is still intact.  The completely disinterested drones of our government bought it.

Seeing an employee through the glass doors, I wrap up my faux conversation, "Alright girl, I'll call you after work at the DMV where I work and am not an impostor."  Shutting my phone, I approach the door where the monumentally over weight automaton exits.  A polite nod.  From me.  A look that is something like scorn but possibly indigestion.  From her.  I'm in.

Negotiating the labyrinth of two government security people who are clearly alert enough to notice a double whopper in front of them can be tricky.  They have spaced themselves for maximum coverage on opposing ends of the picnic table they man.  I feel my brow as it begins to sweat.  I hope they won't spot me.  I then remember that I'm a chameleon with my disguise.

fool-proof subterfuge

I move purposefully through the lobby without attracting even a glance.  Phase one complete.  Now it's time to meet the inside man.  I give the signal and he comes out with my supplies.  One cinnamon roll.  Two bags of corn nuts.  One diet Pepsi.  And one bag of cheddar sour cream ruffles.

I walk by a remote cubicle and drop the corn nut bag.  I excuse myself to the lone worker and smile sheepishly.  Then I stuff my face with a handful.  And moan slightly.  Before finishing the corn nuts, I put a piece of the cinnamon roll in my mouth in her full view and walk around the corner.  The anticipation is breathtaking.  She takes the bait.  I see her peak around the corner of her cubicle with barely concealed salivation.  Feigning indifference, I set my goodies down on the table and walk off.  She follows her nose.  Phase two complete.

Making my way back to her cubicle, I become aware of my time frame.  She'll inhale the goodies in 5 minutes flat.  I can only hope that the ruffles will dry out her mouth after the pepsi is gone and force her to procure another beverage.  I sit at her desk and notice her name tag.  Lucretia Brown.  I rifle through her drawers and see her birthday was in 1982.  There is a password prompt.  "LBrown82".  Denied.  "LBrown1982".  Denied.  My brain works furiously.  "Sweet thang 411".  The computer hums.  Access granted.

Phase four is complete.  All I have to do now is access my record and make the necessary changes.  The moment is here.  I can't believe I'm so close.  Involuntarily, I swipe the sweat off of my face with my sleeve.  The plastic nose and mustache is beginning to itch.  I type in my name.  4 results.  It asks for a social to narrow it down.  I enter the digits.  I press enter...

A shrieking siren goes off and an alarm klaxon that must have come from a battle ship erupts.  Confetti falls from the ceiling.  I don't know if I inadvertently set off the self destruct button or if I am the one millionth customer.  I look at the screen.  It says "Warning! Fine overload!"  Any further tampering will activate the pneumatic birdcage and I'll be trapped.  I'm forced to beat a hasty retreat.  Next time DMV.  Next time.

Impersonating Indians (the feather kind)

Sup guys, just another Injun like you

Ok, so I have an idea.  It turns out that with a little Indian, or 'Native' blood, there are some pretty sweet perks.  A few friends of mine got their college paid for because they are 1/32 some injun tribe that no one ever heard of.  And there was a rumor about this chick that got like 20 G's a month for being part of a better tribe or something.  When I had a mohawk, my name was Chief Smackajo.  The wheels started turning and an idea was born.

So I get decked out like a real native, and just crash a meeting.  Just rain dance my happy ass up to the conference room and poke my bow and arrow through the partially opened door.  I have an arrow head I got from Sutter's Fort in 87 that has to be around somewhere.  Just take some leather shoe laces and tie it to a stick.  Think they'll respect that?  If I just show up at their meeting in some underwear and a head dress, and start sniping with obsidian arrows?

Then do a commando roll while they look at me in their business suits like "Uh John, is this one of your drunk brother's kids?" and I hop up chanting?  Explain to them in broken English like a John Wayne movie that I'm chief Smackajo, and have come out of the woods like a Japanese World War Two vet like "hey guys, when did the war end?"  Just not missing a beat and doing Indian things with the local Indians at the Casino, taking armfulls of chips like I'm gonna decorate my head dress with it and head straight to the cashier?  Think that would work?  Just walk in with like fifteen toupees on a length of twine like they're scalps?

Squaw

Then I could just pillage the cocktail waitress help and snag a squaw or two like it's still pre-revolution.  Just coochie gankin girls with a tan named Debbie, putting them over my shoulder like they're Pocahontas and running around the place wild eyed and on a mission.  Just a thought.  It might just be crazy enough to work.

Scrooge McDuck: Closet freak

Scrooge beckoning the dancers

After watching 20 episodes of Duck Tales, I'm on to Scrooge's game.  "I got your number, Scrooge".  Anyone ever notice that he keeps small bills?  Hmm?  Anyone notice that anytime Scrooge is nudged even slightly, he makes it rain?  Why, you ask?  Because Scrooge stays ready for the strip club, that's why.

First of all, Scrooge is a sucker for the dames.  Whether it's Millionaira or Goldy, he gets gaga about the girls.  Even with Magica da Spell, he was for sure doing things with her before she smoked one too many cigarettes and had a few too many Piroskis and turned babushka.

And what kind of zillionaire has a dime as his favorite coin?  And a money bin filled with one dollar bills and nickels?   The kind that doesn't want to get caught changing twenties for ones, that's what kind.  After getting caught red handed, the only way to really have a penchant for strip clubs uncovered is with the bank records.  He doesn't pay his employees well, and he knows that as soon as an accountant finds the money trail leading to the ATM at centerfolds, it's speed dial to the enquirer.  Scrooge got rich being smarter than the smarties and tougher than the toughies.  Ergo, he keeps the small bills ready.

Showing the kids how to make it rain

Tell me he's not permanently ready for the strip club, with a damn top hat and cane?  Ever notice how handy he is with that cane?  Falling out of a chopper?  Cane on the skid.  Going overboard on a boat?  Cane on the flagpole.  You think he can't lassoo a stripper with that thing?  Must be crazy.  And what good uncle wouldn't take his duck-middle school kids to the club and show them how to tip frugally to get the most bang for the buck?  A sorry kind.  Not Scrooge.  They're always going on trips together, no matter how perilous, because the kids have acquired a diverse palette for strippers.  They love the women of the world.  (Gotta do it.  Sorry.)

So, we've got rapist skunks, pimpin vampires on Sesame street, and closet freaks like Scrooge, canvassing the streets for another place to make it drizzle with ones, dimes, and nickels.  I'm not knocking it.  I'm just saying.

Mind control

Just saw a trailer for a movie called "Limitless".  Don't know if it's good or bad or anything about it, except that in the movie this clown can take a drug that allows him to use 100% of his brain.  And dominate mentally.

Uhh, are there any experimental tests going on with this drug?  Phizer?  Watson?  Anyone got some of that in the pipe?  Sign me up, seriously.  Really don't care about anal leakage, depression, shortness of breath, heart palpitations, asthma, quacking like a duck or spontaneous combustion.  Just get that in my hands and watch out.

Does anyone else care about this?  And I don't mean for money either.  Sometimes I get to the end of my mental rope and it's frustrating.  What if you didn't have to take ten years of quantum physics to just get it?  Like, if you could look at the heiroglyphs that they call equations and know immediately what the graph looks like just with computational power?  Or make a model of extra dimensions on a whim?  At this point, I can only draw crude analogies and hope for the best, and inevitably give up.

I guess the downside would be not having anyone to talk to about interesting stuff that you derived while taking a leak.  I have enough of a tough time now.  But if a person were inclined to be entertained by their own thoughts, then this would be phenomenal.  Any idea what kind of stuff a person could play on the piano with a skill like that?  Unreal.

Just kinda outing myself as a really big nerd here, but to this point the superpower I wanted has been the force.  And not just any force, the dark side.  After all, if one wants to be a wise leader, they should embrace a larger view of the force.  Duh.  But I don't know now.  I think if you could use your whole brain, then moving stuff with your mind would probably be a snap.  You could probably outsmart people into choking themselves anyway.  The lightning would probably be the decider.  I forgot, I just need to get my hands on some powerthirst and the lightning is covered.

So I probably won't see the movie, but I've spent an hour thinking about what it would be like with infinite mental powers.  Am I the only one?  It's not just philosophers that want knowledge, is it?

Ooh!  I almost bagged it there, but the thinking is the fun part for me.  If I knew everything, then that might take some of the fun out of it.  Ok, the pill is coming a distant second to darkside force powers.  Lightning and having things occur according to one's own design is still on top.  Just call the mental hospital now.  I'll go quietly.

Flashback

If there were any lingering questions about my immaturity, let them be put to rest.  After hearing about some guy who created the Disney afternoon form a blog post by my man Deej, I made a bee line for Hulu.  Searched Ducktales.  No dice.  Fine.  Youtube.  Boom, there it is.  Episode one part one.  Apparently, I am now on episode 8.  Without even blinking and no end in sight.  I'm a thirty year old man just loving cartoons.

Apparently, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.  When I was a little kid, my dad loved watching cartoons as much as I did.  Our favorite was Bugs and Tweety.  Channel 13 at ten am Saturday mornings.  Count it.  I don't think anyone ever accused my dad of being overly mature.  Or even adequately mature.  In fact, looking back, he was a bearded 11 year old with a foul mouth.  And completely awesome.

I'm not making any judgments about this character trait, good or bad.  It takes all kinds.  I do judge anyone who doesn't like Bugs Bunny.  And I don't trust anyone who doesn't like Bugs bunny.  Nor do I respect anyone who doesn't like "Back to the Future".  Getting a little off track here, but if you don't like "Weekend at Bernie's (shout out to Jahsh Brown's favorite movie in fourth grade)", then there is something wrong.  Not sure what the point is, but I've apparently watched 4 hours of Ducktales without batting an eye.  So, say what you will.  I am at this point vulnerable to any scrutiny that brings judgment and even condemnation on my functionality as an adult.  That these cartoons are awesome is a foundational truth and not open for debate.  Duck Tales, whoo-ooh!

Love 101 and being better

The trifecta of wisdom is Jesus, Socrates, and Bloomfield.  I say this frivolously as Jesus is Wisdom, but parallel to His teachings, there is some dove-tailing.  Jesus' greatest commandment was to love, and to love in a way that seems counter intuitive to the world.  Not only are we to love those who love us, which is quite easy, but also our enemies.  Socrates, who claimed to be ignorant in all things made an exception when it came to love.  Basically, do it.  And Bloomer said , "you're either getting better or you're getting worse, Watts."  Sage wisdom on all counts.

When reflecting, as I often do, I considered these concepts and commandments.  I thought about myself and where I really am in an existential sense.  I consider myself to be a likable guy in many ways, and someone who makes friends easily.  On the other hand, I also rub people the wrong way at times and can be quite abrasive.  It occurred to me that the things people like about me and being around me are the things that are reflective of love.  And the things that aren't appreciated are more reflective of a selfish nature.

The Bible says that love is patient, kind, slow to anger, doesn't keep a record of wrongs, is not prideful and doesn't boast.  Et cetera.  One of the most likable, if not the most likable person I know is Jahsh Brown.  He told me sometime in the early 90's about his advice to a friend of his who was trying to make friends in a new school.  Jahsh said to his friend to be nice to people.  His friend, Matt, quickly reported how amazed he was at this technique's success.  2 for 2 with being kind.

Socrates' suggested a place that was comprised totally of 'lovers and darlings'.  In such a place, where people were involved exclusively with people whom they cared about, the thought experiment showed that there would be total po flow.  It's hard to imagine it being otherwise.  People are hesitant to embarrass themselves in front of those they care about with ugly displays of un-love.  And people are ashamed when they let down those they care about.  While it seems impossible to create such a place, it is also obvious that if people were inclined to decide to love everyone, then there would be a trend toward this same tendency.

In my life, there is room to increase the love.  According to the wisdom of Bloomfield, we are either getting better or worse at this.  I decide to be better.  Acting in a loving way is always the right thing to do.  This doesn't mean that one should be irritating in fake love, always exuding a million watt smile.  Rather, we should be thoughtful and sincere in everything we do.  I want to be thoughtful in everything I do.  My mom taught me to be this way, mostly in her actions and the lessons that were embedded in so many of our conversations.  I choose to be more so.  I choose to love the way the King loved.  And when I don't, I choose to dust off and start over again, being more like the King.

There is a practical component to this as well.  When acting in a loving way, responses of un-love by others becomes laughable.  We feel good when doing loving things, even if they are under appreciated.  For instance, when opening a door for someone out of the goodness of your heart, even if they don't say thank you, the response isn't bitterness as much as "wow, don't mention it buddy".  I ask for everyone to join me in being more loving and making the world better.  I know you guys are already loving, and I respect you for it.  Let us be even more conscious of our loving nature and embrace it's goodness for goodness' sake.