Here’s more on the Milk-of-Human-Kindness theme. Add this post to the exhibit list of January 17th. Recall that these items are admissible to disprove Anita’s working hypothesis that, as a species, we are no damn good.
Return with me to where Anita is hearing the thin mewing she thought she was receiving in her non-mercury fillings. These mewings were not a transmission from Mars but, in fact, Mr. Bugs, himself under the house in real time and place.
The same Mr. Bugs who had shifted his horrible little gray shoulders out the door that horrible November day, to seek his fortune in the wild weird world. [Consult The Plot button on the right.] Mr. Lion of the Serengeti, Mr. Manjushri of the Mighty Claw, Mr. Intrepid Attacker of Ankles and The Red-Fleece-Robe-Sash Cobra of the Jungle –
To be honest, I don’t blame him and I’m going to drop the snarky tone right here and now. Kim extended empathy to him, when I could not, and I bet she’s right on target. She thought Bugs might have felt like he was on an acid-trip minus the slow build-up. There he was, bored no doubt, but at least secure, in the colorless-odorless-tasteless environment we call Home the Great Inside. He shifts his horrible little gray shoulders just that far out the door – and wallop. Total sensory and emotional overload. In his place, I’d have done the same thing. Under the house presto.
As a matter of fact, I did do just that sort of thing, when I myself was tinkering with my brain chemistry back in the day – but I digress.
See Bugs shaking in his cute white boots under the house. See Anita stretched out in the dust on her belly, hands clamped around Bugs’s horrible gray butt, trying not to speak in threatening tones. Teresa not yet there to take command of the situation.
Well, so sorry, but I just have to interrupt this narrative with another amazing piece of synchronicity. I hopped over to FaceBook for a quick break from this exhausting writing business and look what I find posted, from my good friend Elizabeth:
D. H. Lawrence:
“When we get out of the glass bottles of our ego, and when we escape like squirrels turning in the cages of our personality and get into the forests again, we shall shiver with cold and fright . . . things will happen to us so that we don’t know ourselves.”
People around here know Jamey. He is a force of nature. You might find his vigor a little alarming, were it not for the incontrovertible fact that his good cheer, his joie de vivre, is so very charming and all-inclusive, you just cannot help – Friends, I speak to you as a world-weary, shall we say embittered? surely not . . . let’s say soured. Even moi cannot help but brighten when Jamey hoves onto my horizon.
There’s Jamey, hoving onto my horizon that dire day. Jamey is a kick-butt Cajun accordion player. Now again, I need to break in here to say that I subscribe to the school of thought expressed by a bumper-sticker I once saw on musician Emily’s car: Play an accordion. Go to jail. It’s the law.
So see me stretched out in the dust with my hands clamped around Bugs’s horrible gray butt. And hear what burst forth unto my horizon, the ungodly caterwaulings of Jamey’s accordion – did I mention the accordion was amplified? – Jamey’s amplified accordion.
My neighbor Mark – of the mackerel; I’ll get to Mark in a minute – plays in a Cajun band with Jamey. The boys had chosen that dire November day to rehearse in Mark’s front yard, a good .75 mile away from my house. And they had taken the trouble to rig up speakers. To enlarge the experience.
Now normally what happens is, folks bring lawn chairs and beverages and hang out and enjoy themselves.
Nuh-uh. No way was enjoyment of any kind going to happen, that dire day.
You see, with each and every car that went by – and no doubt thanks to the Big Entity in The Sky, thank you very much, this place was like Grand Central Station on that dire day, ask Teresa, she’ll tell you – with each and every car truck van motorcycle plane train and attack-helicopter that went by, Bugs would shrink back under the house again.
I ask you: What do you think his reaction was going to be to amplified accordion music?
Play an amplified accordion. Go to jail for the rest of your natural life.
So I left Bugs and teleported over the .75 mile. Shall we just say, I was not able to greet Jamey in the customary arms-around-the-neck fashion. And when I informed him that the lawn-chairs-and-beverages vibe was just not going to go down, Jamey’s invincible good cheer temporarily faltered.
Now here’s where the Milk of Human Kindness comes in. Jamey actually – agreed to stop.
May we just have a moment of silence, to convey how much I appreciated that.
[Moment of silence.]
That didn’t last long. (You knew that, try to get me to stop talking for more than just one moment.) I repeat: Jamey and the boys in the band were actually willing to wait. For the indeterminate amount of time it took to wheedle Bugs back into the house. And there was no telling how long that was going to be. Bugs was wedged good and proper and it sure seemed like probably good and forever.
Bugs safely back in the house, emerging on the attack from a choice hiding place.
So ladies and gentlemen here assembled, give it up for Jamey. It gives me great pleasure to award the Milk of Human Kindness Medal of Honor to Jamey the Cajun Accordion Guy, for his extreme self-sacrifice in our hour of need.