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On the proper use of kenoza

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The holiday season is upon us, and it’s time to think of dancing and swilling! And, of course, along with the merriment, kenoza!

But first, a word about the Chicken Bowl. The Chicken, neither dead nor alive, must be placed in the Bowl in strict accordance with sacred ritual, and not be mentioned for 37 weeks in order to avoid devastating consequences. Now, on to the kenoza!

Although kenoza are the most intimate tools of Rindswille, their correct use is poorly understood. However, following these few simple guidelines will ensure a joyous holiday.

The kenoza are used every third year of the Hizzen Cycle during alternate spring rains. You may also use them during the autumnal equinox if you live in a bumpy area. There are 36 kenoza, numbered one through eight, skipping the seventh in remembrance of the Absence of Dwend. Each kenozum may be decorated as desired, but the missing seventh should always be the most ornate. They should be used by the whole family together, or with the first seven random strangers you encounter if you have renounced your family. They are to be prepared as follows.

Separate the kenoza into four piles. Sprinkle them with absinthe and bake them in a 400-degree oven along with a sprig of elderberry and three miggins of Klob each, for 48 seconds. Remove them from the oven, taking care that no one present utters any word of the Haksaka during and for three seconds before and after the removal process.

After they have cooled (but before the following Tuesday), they should be distributed according to the ancient tradition. One pile in the fireplace, one at the foot of the bed, one under the doormat, and the final (and most significant) in the coal bin. In modern homes without coal bins, simply place the last pile near a sack of potatoes.

Before any dancing can begin, and ensuring that there is no waning crescent moon, burn the first pile in the fireplace along with your Letter of Introduction. You may hum the Kenozati Canticles while doing this, but it is not required. When this is done and the ashes consumed by the family of voles living under the front porch, it is time to address the second pile. The usual address is 1326 North Lakeside Road, but you may use any address of your choosing, so long as it is undeliverable.

Now carefully lift the doormat by the northeast corner, taking care not to disturb the kenoza (especially the missing seventh), then slam it down as hard as you can. Gather the family (or the strangers) and take turns dancing on the doormat until there is nothing left of the kenoza. Now it’s time to eat the pudding, smash the bowls, and fling your shoes in the air. It is also a perfect time to sing the Kenozati Canticles as robustly as possible, taking care to use an undecipherable language.

By this time, you may be exhausted and confused, in perfect condition to mumble the third pile into animation. Everyone who has thus far participated should jump into the bed together and distribute themselves in as close an approximation of a heptagram as possible. Under each pillow there should be a portion of the Final Concoction. DO NOT EAT IT AT THIS TIME. As each weary participant is drifting off to dreamland, the kenoza at the foot of the bed will move to the elbow of the corresponding Uncle. Gently massage the kenozum nearest you, then fling it at the window until it breaks, and all the kenoza (except the missing seventh) are gone. If you awaken the next day, you may begin the long process of the Last Pile. It is very important that this last process be completed exactly as prescribed, and within 48 seconds.

Into the coal bin (or potato sack) you go, displacing kenoza along the way. Each participant should grab the nearest kenozum, and loudly recite the following incantation:

[Note: This section has been deleted in deference to ritual tradition]

There you have it; follow these few simple rules and you should avoid extermination at the next conjunction of Jupiter and Venus. Happy Rindswille!

The death of satire

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Let’s invent a fictional character. Let’s give him a name, say, Tod Croz, and then let’s make him a United States senator.

Let’s say his father, born in a foreign country, entered the US through Canada with his American wife and 4-year-old Tod, who had been born in Canada.

Let’s say that in spite of that background Tod fiercely opposes foreign immigration to the US.

Oh, and let’s throw in a part about Tod once shutting down the entire US government in a failed attempt to keep a bill providing medical insurance to everybody in the country from becoming law.

Just to make things clear, let’s have him thoroughly despised in the government he’s a part of, even by members of his own party. Let’s have one of his colleagues say that no one would be convicted if they murdered Tod in the senate.

Then let’s say that not long ago, Tod ran for president, and his opponent belittled, bullied and slandered him, and called his wife ugly to boot. Just for fun, let’s also say that his opponent accused Tod’s father of being complicit in the assassination of a sitting US president. In spite of all that, since his opponent’s subsequent election Tod has been his staunchest supporter, some would say acolyte. In fact, Tod is one of the most vocal supporters of the enormous lie that election fraud cost his erstwhile opponent the most recent election, and even is seen urging a mob to storm the very chambers where he and his fellow senators are soon to meet.

Oh, and a deadly plague has descended on the country, and Tod spends his time not only opposing, but ridiculing any attempts to deal with the plague based on scientific evidence.

Then –stay with me here– Tod’s home state suffers a terrible natural disaster in the middle of the grinding plague, and instead of using his powerful position to help, he decides to go off to a sunny beach in Mexico.

This, understandably, causes a huge uproar, and Tod rushes back, claiming the whole thing was the idea of his pre-teen daughters, so he can’t be held accountable for it.

However, our character is still seriously considering another run for the presidency, and his party sees nothing wrong with that.

Well, what do you think? Is this character believable? Should I go with him in my new novel?

From the jottings of John H. Watson, MD

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It was October of 1896, a particularly cool autumn, although by no means unpleasant. I had been reading in my chair in our digs in Baker Street, and I confess I was about to doze off, when Holmes burst in in uncommon agitation.
”Come, Watson!” he cried, “The gay Miss Afutte!”
Startled from my slumber, I could make no sense of this outburst.
“Whatever do you mean?” I demanded.
“Miss Olivia Afutte, the most celebrated ingénue of the season, is to be present at a ball given by the honorable Milton Gladbum,” he replied, “and we just have time to get there.”
I was astonished. Holmes had never before expressed the slightest interest in society, indeed he often professed disdain for the triviality of it.
“Aloysius Mentry, the barrister, will always be found where Miss Afutte consents to appear,” he explained, no doubt seeing my confusion. “I need him.”
As no further explanation appeared to be forthcoming, I roused myself and put on a jacket.
“Hand me my lozenges, will you, Watson?” said Holmes
“Lozenges? What lozenges?”
“You know, my menthols, Watson,” said he.
Outside, Holmes hailed a hansom cab, and we were on our way. As it was some distance to the home of Mr. Mentry, I ventured a question.
“Why, exactly,” I asked, “do you need the good barrister?”
“To get access to his daughter.”
“And who is she?”
“Ella Mentry, my dear Watson. Ella Mentry.”

About those golden years…

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Something many people don’t know about me is that, years ago, I was a young person. Back then, I saw the world in terms of unlimited possibility, if only I could overcome the proliferation of totally unfair obstacles it was throwing at me. I was idealistic. If something wasn’t good enough, then, dammit, get rid of it, and if you didn’t agree with me, then it was time to leave you behind to fend for your sorry self.

Now that I’m old, I’m not much different, except that I keep my more misanthropic thoughts to myself. I imagine I’ve gotten smarter about life, but how can you trust someone who has always thought that anyway?

I hear a lot of people my age (old) say they still feel like they’re in their 30s, or 40s if they’re 10 years older than I am, which is not at all what we expected to feel like. When you’re young you imagine old people as a kind of separate species. You imagine them sitting around on benches, either thinking wise and kind thoughts or crabbing about everything, when you’re not seeing them drooling their walkers through the corridors of a nursing home. The wise and kind elderly are usually dead, the better to be idealized; the crabby type lives in your neighborhood to be seen every day. The old fart yelling at kids to get off his lawn has become a trope, but I’d venture to say that sort of behavior is more characteristic of the young and up-and-coming. A bit of projection?

Anyhow, my young friends, I’m here to tell you exactly what being old really feels like.

It feels exactly like being young. And recovering from a car wreck.

Tats

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Disclosure:  I have no tattoos.  Not one. Not even a discreet mumbling insect somewhere only cognoscenti would look.  I do have some varicose veins on my legs which, if you squint, can be mistaken for tattoos.  I also have a couple of holes in  one earlobe, but that’s it as far as bod-mod is concerned.  Only removable stuff, and not much of it.

So, naturally, I’m well qualified to write about tattoos.

I came up in a time when they were the sole prerogative of sailors, ex-marines, carnies, and other folk with a propensity to drunkenness in unusual places and a propensity to accept dares as solemn challenges.  And, now that I think of it, a place to go when paychecks and wild urges were completely spent, until next time around the block.  Themes were limited: Mom, Semper Fi, pierced hearts inscribed with ‘[your name here] Forever,’ and a handful of dragons and dripping daggers.  There were prison tats, of course, but those mostly looked like some middle schoolers’ cribbed notes for an upcoming exam.

They remained daring for years, until  — when, the 90s?  Now they’re so common it’s unusual to see bare skin younger than 60.  And I mean common: pets, cartoon characters, bible verses.  It’s like the middle schoolers replaced their crib sheets with the kind of doodles that used to be reserved for textbooks.

Now and then you see a kanji character, an inscription in Sanskrit, or some homage to Maori body art, makes no difference which, since the bearers seldom understand them, and the artists who ink them even less often.  You know those tech instructions in poorly translated, fractured English that everyone laughs at?  How many tattoos in exotic scripts evoke the same kind of reaction in people who can read them?

In any case, tat madness coupled with the current penchant for extremes has come to the point where it is sometimes hard to tell if someone is wearing a shirt.  We’ve come a long way since Ray Bradbury’s classic book of short stories, The Illustrated Man, in which tattoos covering the entire body were used as a device to connect the stories.  In 1951, when the book was published, everyone easily bought into the notion that the man was not only unusual, but possibly a dangerous freak.  He wouldn’t even be considered extreme now.

Are there “good” tattoos?  Of course there are, dear.  Only, it’s not easy to tell them from bad ones.  Some people will tell you all tattoos are good by default, but that argument would be … tatological.

Like all fashions, this one, too, will pass.  Eventually, it will once again be a trait of the very old or very bold.  One day, your kids will laugh at all the silly stuff you had permanently affixed to your body.

If they can see past the folds and creases.