Correspondence: October 14, 1991

To TVData Editorial Staff, Glens Falls, N.Y.

By now y’all may have noticed that my friend Nancy L— from Atlanta is in your office struggling to grasp the fundamentals of copy editing. This is, though I’m only guessing here, a very stressful time in an editor’s life — the blossoming of channel editor into NPI staffer. I’m sure she must be full of trepidation, and to undertake such a spiritual journey in a foreign land bereft of friends and family must wear upon her greatly.

I urge you to make her transition easier by showing her the same kindness which you showed me during my exile. Show her the warmth and generosity of which most Yankees are capable if they put their minds to it. Talk to her. Feed her. Take time to KNOW her (and I mean that in a nice way). You may come to realize that the Atlanta dudes are not so different as you think.

Take care of our little Nancy so that she will return to us happy and well. You have a chance to right the evils your people wrought upon mine. This is an awesome responsibility, and I hope you will do right by her for honor, God and country.

Amen.

Pee-Wee Accomplice Arrested

SARASOTA — Sarasota police reported the arrest today of a man alleged to be Pee-Wee Herman’s right-hand man. The man, who calls himself “Cool Hand Duke,” was apprehended while reading the descriptions of adult movies off the backs of video tape boxes in a local video store.

Acting on a tip that Herman had not been working alone, police have been searching the area for several days. “We were lucky to come across him at all,” said the arresting officer, “This is not my usual beat.”

The two men, who share a love of the cinema, have been spotted in area theaters together before. They were recently seen at showings of “Deep Throat,” “A Shot in the Dark” and “Bambi.”

On the night of Herman’s arrest the two men entered the theater during the preview of coming attractions. Mr. Duke allegedly left his seat prior to Herman’s apprehension in order to obtain Milk-Duds and paper towels from the men’s washroom. Although he was not observed committing the crime of which Herman stands accused, authorities are certain that he had a hand in it.

Both men will stand trial in late August. The prosecution is expected to request the maximum penalty — death by exposure. The attorney for the defense, however, is hoping for a hung jury.

Correspondence: February 11, 1991

— Message Entered on 91-02-11 at 21:58:02 —

To: Aileron
Subject: Will U ever see this?

I have hidden this message here in the (R)ead messages place. Since I am BK Himself, I am not limited to a mere seven lines of text. I could write volumes in this space if I so chose. I hold the fate of millions in my hands, so great is my power. I am the Master of Life and Death — life fairly given and fairly taken.

Of course, I feel my responsibilities keenly. Never would the fortune of my minions be determined by capriciousness or whim. I serve in the best interest of those beneath me in power and influence.

I strive to make their meager existence meaningful in some way. I help them to live, experience Humanity to its fullest potential, so that they will flourish. Those pitiful creatures who exist to serve me must feel the glorious pleasures — and the glorious heartache — of being Alive. They must savor the sweetness of my beneficence before I weary of their antics, a shadow-show of my own life, a life lived to Perfection, and dispatch them without comment or remorse.

So I write this tome unfettered by the restrictions placed on lesser mortals. My greatness cannot be contained in a mere seven lines of text. I must express myself without limitations or reservations. And so it is my pleasure to present this message so that you, and all like you, can revel in my glory. But will you ever see it?

BK Himself,
SysOp and Superior Being

— End of Message —

Correspondence: January 27, 1991

Porter Corners, NY

I have not yet told you of yesterday’s adventure. Sometimes I decide to just get up and go somewhere — just get up and GO. Friday evening I decided to “just go” to Illinois and see Jennifer. I thought I could just get in the car after work and drive all night. I wouldn’t take anything. I would buy clean clothes when I got there. I didn’t know the way, but I could buy a map on the road. Out of curiosity I called an airline to see how much it would cost to fly out. Seven Hundred Forty dollars is how much it would cost! I made reservations so I would have a Plan B.

I went to the bathroom, left work a few minutes early and went by the bank. I went back by work after getting some money because I was so nervous that I had to use the bathroom again. Then I was on my way. I drove for fifteen minutes (to the exit I usually use to go home) before I had to pull over and use the bathroom AGAIN. It was BK’s complete Weasel workout night! I got back in the car and made it one more exit before I couldn’t hold on and had to urinate again. By this time the prospect of driving a thousand miles and stopping every two exits to pee was not an appealing one. I decided I would opt for Plan B.

It made more sense, really. I could sleep, put on fresh clothes in the morning, and fly to Springfield in a matter of hours. I could charge the plane tickets and pay for them as soon as I finish paying the phone bill. Then I could spend an additional ten hours with Jennifer. Yep. Sounded good.

I got up at 4:00 in the morning and drove to the airport in Albany. I had to stand in an enormous line behind several groups of people who were about to embark on a skiing expedition and knew that they should get to the airport early enough to stand in front of me. There was a man with unusual hands (didn’t look real somehow) who was carrying on a conversation with a short man in a brightly colored knit cap. A little boy walking through the airport behind his mother decided to wait until he was right in front of me before he spit up all over the front of his jacket. And periodically the line would move and we would all sliiide our baggage up a few feet, then sliiide it up a few feet more. After an irritatingly long time, I reached the counter and got my ticket.

I then went through the x-ray machine and on to the gate to wait for my plane. I was very thirsty while I was sitting there, because I had stopped drinking the night before in order to avoid wee-wee problems on the plane. (On airplane trips I am torn between my love of peeing from high places and my dislike of public restrooms.) I was content to read until the plane was ready for boarding.

Just before departure time we were informed that there might be a delay. There was a malfunction in a circuit breaker on the plane and the mechanics had to see if there was a replacement part at the Albany airport.

I waited.

It was discovered that there was no spare part to be found. The skiers were rerouted immediately on another airline. The rest of us were told to go to the ticket counter to see if we could be rerouted. Baaack to the other end of the airport and that same line.

As I got up to the counter the second time, the mechanic people had found a circuit breaker. I was told that my best bet would be to go back to the gate and wait to see if it would work. If the delay was not more than a couple of hours I could still catch my connecting flight in Chicago. Baaack to the gate.

I waited the better part of an hour before there was an announcement that they were about to install the new part. Five minutes later there was another announcement telling us that the part didn’t work and we would have to find another plane. Baaack to the ticket line.

The best the ticket people could do was put me on a Northwestern flight through Detroit to St. Louis where I would then catch a TWA flight to Springfield, and would I mind terribly going down to the Northwestern ticket counter at the other end of the airport to stand in their line.

Fine.

Everybody in the new line had five bags apiece and was waiting to have them checked by one of the two slow chicks behind the counter. I stood there in the line, which was not moving, and thought.

Standing in line four hours. Exhausted. Hungry. Detroit, St. Louis. $740. $740. $740. Pop getting Visa bill. BK getting poor. The line moved up a foot, but I was no longer a part of it.

I got in my little blue Weaselmobile and made tracks back home.

Correspondence: January 14, 1991

Porter Corners, NY

Dear Joint Chiefs of Staff

Please excuse Bob from the war, as he is not feeling well today. He has been coming down with this illness for some time and I’m afraid that the desert air would only exacerbate his condition. I’d hate for him to infect the other soldiers, for I know how difficult it is to kill when one’s head is stuffy. I think it wise to keep him home near indoor plumbing until he is quite recovered. As soon as he is well I’ll send him right along.

Bob’s Mom


So ... think it will work?

I’ve been hearing about the draft all day, and it frightens me. Fortunately I am on the upper end of the age limitation. They’ll take the kids born in 1971 first, and I guess they wouldn’t get to me until all the young people are used up. We 25 year olds will be safe for a while. …

Correspondence: February 2, 1991

Porter Corners, NY

... I haven’t had time to experiment with SimEarth much; I find the manual intimidating. I did, however, play with it for an evening in the experimental mode (a mode which allows you infinite energy to inflict your will on the unsuspecting tenants of your world). I terraformed Mars and guided it through about seven hundred years of development. Unfortunately, I overpopulated the planet with people who soon reproduced to an extent unknown even on the Earth of today. The plants were healthy, but all the intelligent (?) life did was kill one another. They reached a plateau in their advancement and lived in constant conditions of war or plague.

I tried to lessen the burden on the planet by killing off large numbers of the population, but they quickly proliferated and were back to their original numbers in short order. I tried volcanoes, I tried meteors, fires, plagues, I finally even resorted to a barrage of nukes. It was very Old Testament. Those Sim-pletons wouldn’t quit fighting, so I just got out and deleted the file.

Correspondence: February 19, 1988

Atlanta, GA

... I’ve been working on some New Age rules which, when they are completed, will ensure instant success in the New Age resulting perhaps in fame, fortune, or emotional stability. Here is what I’ve got so far:

1. Hang a cigarette from the corner of your mouth, hold your wine glass in one hand (never putting it down whether you drink from it or not) and talk about purity and essence and the God-consciousness.

2. Try to make everything you say sound like poor free-verse poetry. Equate every intangible concept to its opposite: light and darkness, death and rebirth, etc. The more ambiguous and paradoxical you make it sound, the more profound it will seem.

3. Speak of many Truths. If people disagree with anything you say, tell them that your Truth is a different one from theirs.

4. Try out everything you say before you take credit for it. If people like what you have to say you may proudly admit that you are the source. If there is any question about its popularity, you channeled it.

5. Most important: always sound like you know what you’re talking about. If others feel that you know they will assume that their inability to grasp the subject at hand is due to their own inadequacies and that none of the blame for that failure will rest on you. These people are easily recognized, as they are the ones who seem to be following you most closely, watching you intently with knitted brow and nodding understanding after every sentence.
____________

An interesting series of events happened in Little Five Points while I was there yesterday. I was walking around cruising the job market in the area while some person passed out behind my car in the parking lot. I was ready to go, but I couldn’t leave with all those police and ambulance attendants and unconscious people behind my car. I thought it might be considered bad form by the onlookers to back over the dude’s head before he came to, so I just laid low until the excitement was over.

Abbadabba’s had a help wanted sign in the window, but I decided not to apply there. I got in the car and headed down Moreland toward Ponce, and across from Eat Your Veggies was a horrible wreck slowing traffic somewhat. Some lady was still in one of the cars grimacing in pain as if a bone were broken or something was preventing her egress from the vehicle. The police from the previous event drove the block to the accident and took charge of the situation.

I decided it wasn’t time for me to leave Little 5P yet, so I turned around and parked the car again — in the same spot, I noticed by its relation to the bloodstain from the other guy. I went into the Pub to think about filling out an application at Abbadabba’s. After consuming a little liquid courage, I went over to do it. I went in and courage flew out the window. “How are you?” asked the girl behind the counter. “Fine,” I said and ran out the door.

Have you been following this Swaggart stuff? It seems this guy has his own version of the Gospel that pretty much lets him do whatever he wants. Every other minister has his own interpretation, too. You don’t even know who to listen to because they all say different things. When I read the Bible I only read the red words because I want to know what this Christ dude really said.

And people like these Bible-bangers (a term which takes on a whole new meaning after Swaggart) try to defend the Bible and their faith by saying, “it’s the word of God.” That’s it. Not a very structured argument. A defense like that would never hold up in court unless justice was deaf as well as blind.

Okay, maybe it was on the best-seller list two thousand years ago. If it’s really so great why hasn’t God written a sequel? He could have the Old Testament, the New Testament, and then the Brand New Testament. It could even be a trilogy. It might even catch on and become a successful series. Think of this: “Testament IV — Jesus is back, and this time it’s personal.” Or: “Testament Part VI — The Spawning.” This Jesus guy could be the next Jason. He could keep coming back only to be killed at the end of every book. I think we have something here.

I saw a commercial on TV last night that was telling me about a dish soap that was ever so much better than its competitors because it was made with real lemons. Big deal! If you eat it, it’s still going to taste like soap.

And I was reading my anthropology book the other day about music in various cultures. One class of instruments is known as “membranophone” after membrane. Yuk! I imagine there was a Neolithic dude like me once who finally had enough and said, “C’mon, guys! Do we have to call it a ‘membranophone’? It’s making me sick! Why don’t we just call it a ‘drum’?”

I just don’t deal well with dismemberment. I was at my grandmother’s the other day fixing some shrimp. If I close my eyes and grit my teeth, I can rip their little legs off. I was about to eat when my grandmother asked if I’d cleaned them. Cleaned them? Apparently you’re supposed to make a slit down the shrimp’s back and pull a little vein out. I started to feel kind of dizzy as she demonstrated this technique. She pulled a little vein out and said, “You see how light the vein is? That means he hadn’t had much to eat.” Oh, great! The poor thing died hungry. I didn’t really enjoy the meal.

I was reading in Discover magazine a fascinating article discussing whether dolphins made their peculiar noises through their nasal or vocal apparatus. Some dude took a dead dolphin head and blew through its larynx to see what happened. God! We are supposed to be civilized! We don’t have to blow into a dolphin larynx to make noise. That’s why we invented the tuba.

I told Autumn about this macabre experiment and said, “I’ll bet you’ve had to dissect things before, huh?” She said, sure, she’d dissected a dolphin’s head before. That’s why I went into linguistics — dead languages don’t bleed.

Well, I guess I’d better send this letter off. I may have to write a lot more in light of the last phone bill.

Oh, yeah, I’m 22 now. People say I’m over the hump. Not really, but at least the memory is fading. That’s a reference to the state of my sex life which has been non-existent for ever so long. Planned Parenthood sent me a Christmas card and on the inside it just said, “Thanks.”