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Now, having dumped that scenario on you, I'll get to the crux of my latest gripe with my world, which are gremlins. "What??" I hear you say, "Has the man gone dingy on us?" Maybe, but let me explain. According to my handy-dandy Webster's Dictionary, the term gremlin is defined as: 1. An imaginary gnome like creature often blamed for mechanical problems, especially in aircraft. 2. A maker of mischief. I find the second definition more attuned to my idea of what the little buggers are, mischief-makers. They are the reason all those poor slobs standing in that line waiting to get a good seat, up close near the band, have to spend a chunk of infinity looking for lost articles from their past life. "How so?" you ask. Well, you don't really think you're responsible for losing all that crap over a lifetime, do you? Heck no! It's those pesky little gremlins that did it all. I hear you laugh, but it's true you know! Anyone who has a drawer full of single socks knows this. Anyone who just bought a new pair of fifty dollar designer sunglasses and lost them somewhere between the store and the house knows it too! Anyone who has casually tossed their car and house keys on the table only to return twenty minutes later to use them and found them mysteriously missing knows this too. Who else could have snagged those damn keys, but the gremlins! It's obvious, isn't it? This whole gremlin concept came about early on in my life. Back when all our music came on vinyl…come on, some of you remember LPS and 45s for crying-out-loud! All those lovely black plastic circles, stored in paper sleeves, inside arty cardboard outer sleeves…we called'em album covers. I was an avid collector, still am, only now it's CDs. I had several hundred of these treasured platters inscribed with my favorite music of the day all arranged alphabetically by artist. Much to my friends chagrin, I never loaned my albums out to anybody; it was a strict policy. Too many relationships ended on a nasty note because somebody would borrow an album, promise to treat them with kid gloves, only to return them all scratched to hell! If scratches were on my albums it was going to be only because of my mistreatment, nobody else's. For the most part, the collection remained pristine. Yet on occasion, I'd play an album, carefully return it to it's sleeve, only to find it mysteriously scratched the next time I went to play it. The "phantom record scratcher" had once again struck in the dead of night…or so it seemed. It really pissed me off! This was the exact time I discovered the gremlins. The damned gremlins were the ones responsible for the continued assault on my prized record collection! Bastards! I attempted to be even more careful in the handling of the albums, but nothing would ever fully correct the problem. There was always a new one with some horrible gouge taken out of it. Heartbreaking, but totally out of my control…lousy little farts! The gremlins have followed me through life. I don't expect to see them, their too sneaky for that, but I don't suspect they'll be going away anytime soon either. Maybe there is a team of gremlins attached to us at birth. They follow us through life, no matter where we go or what we do, and continue to quietly make our life a maddening place to function until finally we bite the big one, take the old dirt nap, and at last they're gone. Of course that brings me back to the initial thought of this piece: even in death we will be forced to face the end result of all their mischievous efforts…damn! There is just no rest for the wicked! Your faithful reporter
- RCat Who is this Guy RCat? Currently, his duties include acting as the head of a family consisting of an overworked wife, a vibrating teenaged son, and an over stimulated housecat. An elder daughter resides at some distance with her own family; a husband, two sons, and a daughter. As head of this merry band of pranksters, the illusionary aspects of his carefree life are played out on the stage of daily routine. RCat is a self described "survivor," having lived through the "flower power" promises of the 1960's with the goals of world peace, universal brotherhood, free-love, and the legalization of certain organic herbs. Contrary to what others might say, he can still remember parts of it quite vividly. Sadly, those cosmic issues have now been reduced to the cliché. He now, more realistically, understands the world has gone quite mad and no longer cares to be a part of the continuing descent into oblivion. The thought of putting on a loincloth to venture forth and live out his days meditating in a tall tree in a distant forest sounds appealing. Of course, he isn't kidding himself. Chances are a noisy bunch of cretins will quickly invade the tree next to him. Ah well, such is the way of this planet we call home. In the meantime, he scribbles poetry, short stories, and essays, as well as a choppy stream of drawings, cartoons and works of art. All done with a grin as meditative mental therapy in an effort to hold onto what little remains of his sanity. Enjoy him while you can, he is the quintessential endangered species.
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Songs of
I had this thought the other day: I imagined all
those people who have served exemplary lives and die, ending
up in that oh-so-talked-about line at the pearly gates, have
to pass one final test before they can be admitted. The head
angel at the gate checks off their names and then directs them
to a huge pile of "stuff." A mountain of miscellaneous
items such as sunglasses, keys, shoes, socks, wallets, address
books, eye glasses, jewelry items, hand tools, handkerchiefs,
gloves, jackets, etc., stretching as far as the eye can see.
Their instruction is to locate all those things in the pile that
they lost over their lifetime. If they are successful, then and
only then, will they be admitted to the "happy hunting ground."
In the meantime, they can treat this little exercise in the absurd
as what may be referred to as purgatory or maybe a little bit
of temporary hell, take your pick. I have to admit, the concept
gives me a real chuckle. If life isn't easy, what really makes
us so sure the after-life is going to be a walk in the park?
I guess the only way I'll ever know the answer to this is to
take that final trip, and frankly, I'm just not ready for that
tour…thank you very much!
R.
C. Arquette, "RCat" to friends and fellow writers,
is an aging hippie and practicing curmudgeon. He was dragged
into the world, kicking and screaming, back in the middle of
the last century; 1950 to be exact. His outburst clearly showed
his disdain for reality at the earliest of stages. He grew up
living in the sub-tropical splendor of the "Sunshine State,"
Florida, US of A, where he attended Jr. College and after twenty
years received his AA degree; what can I say, life kept getting
in the way.
