What happened this week back in 1850?

California became a state.
The state had no electricity.
The state had no money.
Almost everyone spoke Spanish.
There were gun fights in the streets.

So basically, it was much like California today, only the women had real breasts.

San Francisco, CA 1976: When the lady came to drop off the flyers for the play, her car had a problem starting again, so I went downstairs and helped get it going. The flyers were for a play about the tribulations of black folks.

After she paid me to distribute the flyers, she said she liked my southern accent, and offered me a part in the play: a slave trader.

I thought, Why not?

I went to the audition, and got the part.

The play was set in the time of the underground railroad, and I was to play an over-the-top redneck of wretched disposition who flew off the handle. I flew off the handle. Did it well.

After a week’s rehearsal, the play opened. It even got good reviews. But it became clear that I didn’t want to be an actor: It was interesting while learning how to do it, but who would want to do the same old thing night after night?

The lanky actor who played The Preacher disagreed. “Not at all,” he droned in his deep voice, “That’s the challenge. Being able to create it brand new very night.”

Hmmph. Not my cup of tea. But no problem. This play was only for the one performance.

I wouldn’t have missed it though, because at the final rehearsal, two very strange things happened.

. . .

I’d shucked my motorcycle jacket in this little room where we waited. It was a semi-dress rehearsal. We all wore black trowsers and a white shirt. My boots were OK.

While we were waiting, the male lead, a large black man of great charm, said something, and somebody else said, “Yo’ mama,” and there was a great laughing, which puzzled me tremendously. He saw the look on my face.

“It’s a kind of insult thing,” he said. “You insult somebody and their mother. For example …”

And then he blistered into the most amazing rapid-fire diatribe against me, calling me all kind of names that were at once confusing, irritating, and hilarious. Then he turned to insulting my mother.

“Your mama,” he said, “Your mama so fat she use the equator for a belt! Your mama so ugly she got to sneak up on a glass of water to get a drink! Your mama so mean her smile got arrested by the police!”

All the black actors rolled around. I’d never heard anything like it. Wierd!

Then we went to rehearse the play. And when we got back, my motorcycle jacket had disappeared. It wasn’t just missing; it had been stolen.

In my shirt sleeves, angry and depressed and shivering, I rode home to Third Avenue, and put the motorcycle away. Back up in my room, I warmed up with a glass of tea, then became depressed further, realizing that my green smoking material in the fancy box and my clever folding pipe were in the jacket pocket, along with my little notebook of things to do.

I looked out my window, and riding high above the victorian across the street, the full moon peeked down through misty strings of cloud to shine moonlight on my face. I smiled.

“Ms. Moon,” I said to the moon, “I sure do like my jacket. And if it’s gone, well, that’s the way it happened. But I sure would be grateful to have my jacket back.”

Ms. Moon smiled down at me.

A few minutes later, the door buzzer went off from downstairs. I wasn’t expecting anyone but buzzed them in, and, looking out at the hallway, was surprised when the cop came up the stairs with my jacket.

He asked me if I was me. I said yes. He asked me if it was my jacket and I said it was. He asked me what happened, and I told him how it disappeared from the rehearsal room. He told me how it came to him.

“My partner and I were driving along near the auditorium, and this guy was walking and when he saw us, he took off. That made us curious, so we followed, and then he ran down an alley, threw off the coat, and climbed over a fence.

“Your name is in the little book, and when we investigated, it didn’t seem like you were that guy, so here you are.”

I thanked him and he left.

In the pocket, my little book, and the little pipe, and the fancy wooden box for the smoking material. The smoking material was gone, but how much can one ask of the police?

I said, “Thank you, Ms. Moon.”

Henrietta, Texas, 1955: The Kiwanis Minstrel Show was coming to town, or at least to the high-school gymnasium. The basketball floor was covered with row on row of folding chairs, and ticket-sellers encamped at the rear doors.

I had an important job, operating the spotlight, and sat alone in the high bleachers. During rehearsals, I watched as a young schoolmate, Robert Bell, stuck a nail into the electrical circuit, so as to feel the jolt. Nobody stopped him. Who cared if he fried?

Just as the television show “Amos & Andy” has disappeared, and never emerges among the late-night reruns, so has the Minstrel Show disappeared. Of course the original ones toured the South once apon a time, and Lenny Sloan resurrected the “Three Black and Three White Minstrel Show” in San Francisco during my early answering service days. In fact, Lenny was my client, and now that I think about it, if I recall right, he still owes me money!

But back then, in my home town, this was the Kiwanis Club, masters of disguise.

My stepfather, Dr. Strickland, wearing blackface and a bow-tie that lit-up, he was in the show. My uncle, Dr. Hurn, with a bow-tie he could bounce up and down with his adams apple, he was in the show. Houston McMurray, our pompous town lawyer, was just perfect as “Mr. Interlocuter.”

Mr. Interlocuter was a well-dressed white man in the Minstrel Show. His job was Master of Ceremonies, and he would play straight man to the various pseudo-black actors as they delivered their gags. The entire chorus, in blackface makeup, would deliver songs, and background harmonies for solo singers.

In one skit, using a thick dialect considered very humorous, Dr. Hurn sat at a table, and at a knock on the door, admitted a patient, who in an even thicker dialect said that he was having woman troubles. The trouble was that his wife was pregnant, again, and he couldn’t afford to feed any more children.

The doctor gave him some pills which should stop the problem, but in the next scene the patient was back. The pills had failed, the fit had come on him, and the wife was pregnant, again, with yet another chillun.

This time the doctor took him behind a screen for an operation, and the man staggered out. But alas! In the next scene, the man, sheepishly knocking on the door, told the doctor that the operation had failed.

The doctor, now stern, said they’d have to “remove the cause of the difficulty”, and over the man’s protests, performed another operation behind the screen. The fellow was hardly able to walk from the room.

Even worse, in the next scene he was back and his wife was yet again pregnant. Now the doctor really had to think.

“Hmmmm,” said the doctor. “Appears we been operating on the wrong one!”

Ha ha ha ha ha. That one brought the house down.

After the show, when all the audience had gone, and the gymnasium was just an empty floor covered with folding chairs, there was great hiliarity among the actors. Grease paint was in their blood now. A flask was passed around. Some went down to the coffee shop to laugh and drink coffee. Dr. Hurn went to the hospital to do his rounds, still wearing his costume, bobbing bow-tie, and blackface makeup.

“Lordy!” said the nurses.

“My word!” said the patients.

My Uncle Doc, Dr. Hurn, he just bobbed his bow-tie, and didn’t say nothing.

[THIS JUST IN]

Mr. Wang Qin
HanG Seng Bank LTD.
Des Voeux RD. Branch
Central Hong Kong, Honk Kong. [HONK?]

Good day,

Let me start by introducing myself. I am Mr. Wang Qin credit officer of the Hang Seng Bank Ltd. I have a concealed business suggestion for
you.

[VERY LARGE AMOUNT OF MONEY]
Before the U.S and Iraqi war our client General. Ibrahim Moussa who was with the Iraqi forces and also business man made a numbered fixed deposit for 18 calendar months, with a value of Twenty millions Five Hundred Thousand United State Dollars only in my branch. Upon maturity several notice was sent to him, even during the war early this
year.

[NO ANSWER ON THE PHONE]
Again after the war another notification was sent and still no response came from him. We later find out that the General and his family had been killed during the war in bomb blast that hit their
home.

[MONEY JUST LYING AROUND]
After further investigation it was also discovered that Gen. Ibrahim Moussa did not declare any next of kin in his official papers including the paper work of his bank deposit. And he also confided in me the last time he was at my office that no one except me knew of his deposit in my bank. So, Twenty millions Five Hundred Thousand United State Dollars is still lying in my bank and no one will ever come forward to claim
it.

[MY VIEWS ABOUT THE GUBBAMINT]
What bothers me most is that according to the to the laws of my country at the expiration 3 years the funds will revert to the ownership of the Hong Kong Government if nobody applies to claim the
funds.

[YOU LOOK LIKE MOUSSA TO ME]
Against this backdrop, my suggestion to you is that I will like you as a foreigner to stand as the next of kin to Gen. Ibrahim Moussa so that you will be able to receive his
funds.

[I’VE GOT A LAWYER. TRUST ME.]
I want you to know that I have had everything planned out so that we shall come out successful. I have contacted an attorney that will prepare the necessary document that will back you up as the next of kin to Gen. Ibrahim Moussa, all that is required from you at this stage is for you to provide me with your Full Names and Address so that the attorney can commence his
job.

[WELCOME TO THE MOUSSA FAMILY!]
After you have been made the next of kin, the attorney will also fill in for claims on your behalf and secure the necessary approval and letter of probate in your favor for the move of the funds to an account that will be provided by
you.

[RISK-FREE]
There is no risk involved at all in the matter as we are going adopt a legalized method and the attorney will prepare all the necessary documents. Please endeavor to observe utmost discretion in all matters concerning this
issue.

[YOU ONLY GET 25%]
Once the funds have been transferred to your nominated bank account we shall share in the ratio of 70% for me, 25% for you and 5% for any expenses incurred during the course of this
operation.

[ACT NOW!]
Should you be interested please send me your private phone and fax numbers for easy communication and I will provide you with more details of this
operation.

[IN OUR BANK, WE LIKE TO USE FREESERVE EMAIL]
p.s REPLY ME AT; wang_q7@fsmail.net

[KISS ME, YOU FOOL]
Your earliest response to this letter will be appreciated.

[YOUR PALSY-WALSY]
Kind Regards
Mr. Wang Qin

Outer Solar System, Milky Way, 2003: The Cassini spacecraft, being in the neighborhood, has taken 27 snapshots of Jupiter, and NASA folk have assembled them into a very detailed portrait of Jupiter, shown here.

Our solar system’s largest planet is eleven times the diameter of Earth, and may be made entirely of gas so it has no solid surface. In other words, nobody walking around, looking up at the beautiful 62 moons.

Walking would be tough anyway — the gravity would crush you into a teacup — and you’d be short of breath, as the air is made up of water (damp for breathing), ammonia (stings your eyes), and hydrogen sulfide (stink gas). It’s windy, too. Little breezes up to 300 miles per hour are common.

The detailed patterns are actually huge clouds. Near the lower middle of the picture is the Great Red Spot. It’s a swirling vortex of gas, large enough to swallow our entire planet of Earth.

The Cassini space probe also recently recorded the sound of a solar flare. More information about Cassini’s mission, and more photographs of Jupiter are available .

Kind of makes you stop and consider the size of things.

No? Well, that’s about the size of it.

Henrietta, Texas, 1961: It was a problem. I was a high-school senior, and the Code of the West said I had to do something. Here is the problem in your nutcase:

Robert Bell, a year my junior, had insulted my girlfriend Carolyn, publicly in the hall, stating that she was just a bitch. People had heard him.

“What are you going to do?” asked Molly Gill.

Well, simple. Honor dictated that I would have to go beat him up. However, that was kind of a problem, seeing as how he was tough, known to be scrappy, larger than me, stronger than me, and was certainly able to beat me silly. There was no doubt: I would lose such a fight. And, I was afraid, deeply afraid, it would be painful.

“What are you going to do?” asked Molly Gill.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Somehow, I had to brace him for it. Saying nothing was unthinkable. My memory still stung from a comment from Eddy Frank, two years previous.

One day, while loafing around, he’d asked me to spread my fingers wide. I did. They didn’t spread very wide, compared to his. He looked surprised.

“Why that’s a weakling sign!” he said.

Sourly, I said nothing. I already thought I weak, a sissy, a coward. I was afraid of lots of things. I was afraid of fights, having lost most of them. I was afraid of girls. I was afraid of what others thought, being sure that others thought poorly of me. It was only years later that I realized that others didn’t spend much thinking about me one way or another.

And now, if I didn’t attack Robert Bell, my girlfriend Carolyn, along with everybody in the entire world, would think poorly of me. A horrible thing. I asked her if Robert Bell had said that. She nodded.

“Yes,” she said, then put her hand on my arm. “Let it be. Leave him alone. He’s crazy.”

She was a wiser person than myself. And she knew he’d kill me in a fight. She didn’t want me hurt. I dithered.

“I don’t know,” I said.

But somehow an idea was coming to me.

Robert’s father was Leon Bell, the plumber. A large, wise, slow-talking man of kindness who’d somehow spawned a hellion. Robert’s mother was a woman remarkable for frazzled red hair, always looking somehow electrified.

Their family were creatures of habit, and somehow I knew, or possibly heard, that they always sat down to dinner at six o’clock. So at six, I was parked just up the block from their old, two-story house.

At 6:05, I knocked on their back door, which somehow I knew would open onto the kitchen, where sure enough they were all sitting around the table, the father, the mother, Robert the dangerous, and his little brother. I stood beside the table, and they all looked at me with curiousity. I nodded to the parents, looked my hardest look at Robert.

“You called Carolyn a name,” I said. “Don’t do that ever again.” Robert made as to get up.

“Let’s talk about this outside,” he said. His father gave him a withering glance.

“Robert!” he said. “Sit down.” I pressed my advantage.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said to the father, again turned to Robert. “Don’t do it again.” The look in his eyes was growing worse.

“Let’s talk about this outside,” he said.

I nodded to the father, to the mother. They said so long. I left.

That night, I slept poorly. Because it was likely that, the next day, I’d be beaten up.

All during the next day, I tried to avoid Robert Bell. I fetched one black look from him in a hallway, and in the early afternoon, getting my books from my locker, I couldn’t avoid him as he walked up to me.

“Don’t ever come to my house,” he said.

“Don’t call my girlfriend names,” I said. He thought for a moment.

“OK,” he said.

If you’re wondering about these phrases, they’re anagrams of my name, “Bloggard”.

I also ran my full name (“Arthur Cronos”), and came up with 21,000 lines of anagrams, mostly awful, but lots of good ones, like “Our Car’s Thorn”, “Roast or Churn”, “Short Rancour”, “Torn Cars Hour”, “Oars Torch Urn”, “Raunch Rotors”, and “Honor Car Rust.”

In fact, I’ve made a little poem. Each line is an anagram of “Arthur Cronos,” kind of a testament to narcissism, and having too much time on one’s hands. Hope you like it …

CORN ART HOURS
A CRUST OR HORN
RAN TO CHURROS
OR HURT AS CORN

NO CHURROS ART
CURT SHORN OAR
ORTHO CAR RUNS
CARS HORN TOUR

CUR OR RAT NOSH
RAT SCORN HOUR
RANT OH CURSOR
ARCH TORN SOUR

SUN CAT HORROR
TRASH OUR CORN
ORATORS CHURN
SOUR CAR THORN

CORN HUTS ROAR
CAR HOUR SNORT
CASH RUN ROTOR
OH RUN CAR SORT

A CHURROS TORN
OR CARS RUN HOT
OUR SHORT NARC
CAN RUSH OR ROT

TORN HOUR SCAR
CARS HONOR RUT
NO CARROT RUSH
CANT HORROR US

ROT ON RASH CUR
ROAR CUTS HORN
RANCOR HURT SO
CURATOR SHORN

There, now. I did it, and I’m not sorry. Every single line an anagram of “Arthur Cronos”, haw!

Probably now you want to see what anagrams are lurking in your name, hmmmm?

OK, ok, I’ll spill all.

Go to the Anagram Server, at WordSmith.Org.