Step Right Up

I find reincarnation a fascinating subject. While not convinced that I have had past lives, certain intriguing possibilities exist. One is a snake oil salesman traveling the west in the 19th century. The showmanship, magniloquence and larceny involved appeal to me.


History lumps all of these itinerant "doctors" as snake oil salesmen, but during their time, there was a difference. Many ersatz entrepreneurs sold patent medicines. An interesting name because, except for Fletcher's Castoria, none ever received patents; they were trademarked. Patents required ingredient disclosure, and we couldn't have that. Snake Oil was another matter.

The construction of the transcontinental railroad brought an influx of Chinese workers to the west coast. The arduous toil caused sore muscles. These laborers sought a traditional liniment, the oil from the Chinese water snake. Both racism and unwanted competition created animosity. The patent medicine hawkers used the term "snake oil salesmen" as a derogatory term for those who sold the oil to the Yellow Peril.

With improved education, more savvy consumers and governmental watchdogs, modern Americans cannot fall prey to such tomfoolery. Who am I kidding? Infomercials, on-line offers and direct-response TV have replaced the vagabond medicine show and its horse-drawn wagon. But the spurious offers of amazing results from unregulated potions and testimonials from grateful shills, remain same as it ever was. Herbal supplements, vitamins, male enhancements and all natural extracts have replaced nostrums like Dr. Kilmer's Swamp Root and Luciana Cordial.

In my mind, one essential element is missing - panache! Despite the slick production values and fast talking pitchmen that flood the airways, showmanship has vanished. The convenience of sitting in your house while wares are hawked pales to the performances of the past.

Imagine having your dusty, drab, day-to-day routine interrupted as a clapboard wagon creaks down Main Street. An impromptu stage is erected. A slick, honey throated man in a frock coat and top hat splinters the morning with oratory. After a few jokes, he introduces a three piece band, and music fills the air. Then the exotic, sultry, Fatima dances the hoochie-coochie. Women blush and try to shield the young ones' eyes. Men abashedly stare at her erotic gyrations. As the crowd reaches critical mass, the barker begins his spiel.

That was entertainment. His nostrums might not have lived up to the lofty tales he wove, but they were not without benefits. The major ingredient was alcohol usually mixed with opium or cocaine. While dangerous and temporary, they did provide a respite from your aches and pains.

"Step right up and take advantage of this rare, wonderful elixir I have brought to you today. Away with aches, prevent pain, banish baleful boils. One spoonful of Dr. Bill's Antediluvian Antidote for All Ailments is the answer for everyday pain and woe."

 Something tells me that occupation fits my personality and talents. As ever - BB

"He's a young faith healer; he's a woman stealer/He will cure by his command/When the music's hot you might have to stand/To hear the Klondike Klu Klux steamboat band/Don't you sweat it; you can't forget it/ W.S. Walcott Medicine Show" - The Band

Impending Doom

Mid-winter doldrums' icy digits pierce the psyche. I could blame these frigid fingers for the shadowy specter surrounding me. I could, but that would be less than truthful. Frankly, since I can remember, I have always felt the omnipresence of impending doom.

When I met a certain statuesque redhead, she was familiar with Hunter Thompson, but had not read his work. I started her off with his only piece of fiction, and one of his earliest, The Rum Diary.  It contains the lines: "...I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles – a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other..."


She brought them to my attention, saying, "When I read those words, I expected to see 'as ever, BB' after it." Res ipsa loquitor


Doom comes from the Old English, dom, meaning a statute or legal judgement. Its most famous use is The Domsday Book, the financial census and tax ledger ordered by William the Conqueror. Some say the word's ominous definition derives from this. Others say is comes from the description of the Final Judgement in the King James Bible. Whatever etymology tickles your fancy, doom's oppressive shadow darkens our existence.

The cataclysmic climax of this big, blue marble does not perturb me. Years ago, I came to the realization that life is ephemeral. As Robbie Burns penned, "The best laid schemes o' mice an' men/ Gang aft a-gley." At any time you could be walking down the street and one of Terry Gilliam's 16-ton animations could squish you. 


 I've delved into idealism, existentialism, empiric rationalism, phenomenology, etc. ad infinitum. It all boils down to Be Here Now - a nod to Ram Dass. You live for the now because nothing is guaranteed.


My problem is not eschatological, but diurnal doom. The morning dew of personal  plans, ideas, hopes, dreams that dissipate under the mid-morning sun. Like Duke and Dr Gonzo racing the big, red shark through the desert, perhaps it's time to break into the ether - as ever BB


"Man makes a beast of himself to forget the pain of being a man." Dr. Samuel Johnson (The epigram at the beginning of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas) 

Latitude Lassitude

In the northern latitudes, January heralds the coldest temperatures. Without going into the details of thermal equilibrium, blame the angle of the sun, ambient temperatures and, as polar plungers know, lower water temperatures.

The cold causes hibernation in fauna and endodormancy in flora. Man fares worse in winter. Our vestigial instinct bids us to increase caloric intake, hunker down and sleep out the season.

But, nooooo! Modern society tolerates no respite. We pursue insidious pressures to satiate the maw of Mammon. The 21st century has transformed the rat race into a rung wheel. Like Sisyphus, we labor futilely.

So, how do we keep the blues at bay until the vernal equinox proclaims the return of Ostara? I could pontificate on Seasonal Affective Disorder, light therapy, vitamin D and exercise, ad infinitum. But that is much too practical.


I combat the weather's weariness with words. January marks the birth of two of my favorite authors, Jack London and Lewis Carroll. I focus on London's work from his Yukon adventures. To Build a Fire and Call of the Wild, read on a cold night wrapped in a warm blanket lessens the sting of he season's frigid fury. While Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass offer escapism and the delight of word play.

Of course, you can always look forward to January 28 - National Kazoo Day. What better way to beat winter's blues than to place a membranophone between your lips and hum the humdrum from your mind? When SAD threatens to cause pain to my brain, I grab the kazoo, don my most colorful raiment and march through the neighborhood playing John Philip Sousa.

If nothing else, the gaping looks of the confused, somewhat annoyed, neighbors is sure to warm the cockles.  As ever - BB

"Contrariwise, if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn't, it ain't. That's logic." - Lewis Carroll