Neanderpundit

When I was a kid I had one or two favorite uncles; a stationary engineer who had a copy of “Steam” by Babcock and Wilcox in his library, and every issue of National geographic. The other a recreational drunk who had an immense library and who introduced me to actual; literature; Kipling, Saki, Guy de Maupassant.

he also handed me some Lovecraft- he considered it “juvenile, but amusing”. I ate it all up.

One early summer’s night I sat on my bed reading “The Horla” and struggling with it. I was a preteen at the time and the concepts and language were daunting, but I struggled through it, and when done, i contemplated it a moment, not entirely sure if it was a storya bout a vampire who drank milk, or a man going insane. Vampires I understood, but the realization that someone’s own mind might abandon him, that his reason be taken away from him, was a horrid and frightening dawn, on my juvenile mind. I thought, how would you even know? And would it be better to know or NOT to know? It sent a chill through me.

At the time, our house had old storms and screens, and my bedroom, having two windows, got one storm and one screen, since there were not enough to go around.

The screen was by my bed, but the storm was across the room. the storms were old fashioned Three Hole storms. They looked like this. (i’m amazed and pleased someone is still making these, it’s the Wooden Window and Door company of Nova Scotia) Anyway, the three hole storm had those three holes because a lot of houses of that era had gravity coal heat, and you sometimes needed to get a little fresh air into the house even when the storms were in. So there was a little slat on a screw that covered those three holes, and you could pull up a sash, open the slat, and get some fresh air into the house on a warmer than usual winter day.

I had opened the slat to get some additional air circulation in the house, and as I sat on the bed, contemplating the idea that a man’s reason could leave him, a june bug the size of a golfball crawled into one of those storm window holes, and flew right into my hair.

I made a noise that most humans don’t make, flailed my arms around like a madman, screamed like a banshee, pissed myself, and brought the whole household into my room before mom smacked the bug (still on my head!) with a copy of Woman’s Day, yelled at me to get my ass to bed. So I did, squished junebug in my hair and PJ’s soaked in urine.

I am often surprised that I survived childhood.

Say Hello, Comrade.

is a rotund man with a belly like Santa Claus. I believe he plays the part once a year for his lodge. A decent man, and a born politician- you have to be, to keep your customers happy, when you have a half hour to talk to them at a time.

he knows me fairly well by now, and when there’s nobody else in the house he usually comes across with a diatribe about the Way Things Are. He’s an old union boy, son of a classic liberal, who is disgustipated by the things he sees. He’s not too pleased about tomorrow, and he’s closing shop then instead of today.

his comments about Obama are unprintable.

Me, for my part, I’m happy to go to work today, because all the government workers are taking a day off.

Which means all the worst fucktards will be off the main highways. My drive to work will be a dream. Not MLK’s dream, mind you, but a dream.

Barber also tells me that the short haircuts are no longer succeeding in hiding the grey.

Have to go high&tight this summer and see what that does. Might end up shaving my head. I would have done already but my cranium is shaped somewhat like a topographical map of the Himalayas,all bumps and ridges and klingon-looking crap.