How to Succeed in Business While Really, Really Trying -- The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin

Photo: The photo we all know, (but how accurate to his personality is it?) from Ben Franklin's Wikipedia page. All of the photos in this entry come from the same page.

(Copied and pasted shamelessly from my Goodreads page. Yes, Goodreads. Don't judge.)

Actually, I have the 1932 hardcover, with red boards and very small print, that this paperback is taken from; but I couldn't find that in the listings, and I'm too lazy to create my own for it, and if you've been able to deal with this sentence, you should be able to read this book, no problem, though Franklin used bigger words. There are lots of semicolons and commas and pedantic words, but that was the style of self-labelled philosophers at the time, so the reader has to deal with it.

Though, to be fair, the reader should deal with it, because this is worth reading. I found a lot to like about this, including:

--Ben Franklin came from almost nothing, and became one of the most known, liked, respected, and wealthy men of his time.

--He wrote plainly about how to get this done, and it amounted to just a few things:

* work your ass off, at printing, business in general, or whatever the hell it is you do

* want to work your ass off; want to succeed

* if you see a good thing, pounce on it, fast, before someone else does

* keep your word, even if it's to your (slight) detriment

* form lots of clubs, and be friends with other good businessmen (and men in general)

* moderate, in all things, except business while young

* want to be a decent person, and strive for it

* if you write well and work hard, you'll be known for it

(This last is surprisingly true, then and now. Most people, IMO, don't write well or work consistently, daily, hard. I'm one of the more active people I know, and I have been disgustingly lazy this summer.)

You may not know that Ben Franklin came from Boston, MA; moved to Newport, RI; then to New York City, then to London, England, then, finally, to Philadelphia. He moved around a lot, mentally and physically, and became a successful (and busy) diplomat after he became a very successful businessman and printer. He never stayed still, and I'll bet his energy was at times difficult for his wife to deal with. (I offer this to you from personal, bitter experience.)

He was one of the most fit and physical guys around in his youth. Written in three stages when he was older (the last time just a year or so before he died), his Autobiography (edited; not in full) comes across as plainly written as he was plainly spoken, and it pulls no punches. It shows he was known for his rowing and swimming prowess when younger, and he speaks highly--as did most guys of his time--of long walks. It seems he was quite different when younger, physically, than the rather robust portraits we have of him as an older man. But who knows? The grim expression of his mouth and lips in portraits (he often looks like he was biting down hard on something) was the common trope in paintings of the time; George Washington looks like he has just finished biting someone's face off, by comparison. So were these guys bitter, too-serious old men, in pain from their wooden false teeth? Who knows, but Franklin's writing doesn't make him seem that way.

(Though, a quick note about his teeth: He was a very successful printer, of course, and he did all or most of the work himself for most of his printing career, so he put a lot of lead in his mouth, between his teeth, when he was setting type. My father, a typesetter himself early in his career [which he missed when he got promoted, though he preferred the better pay and benefits], said he put heavy lead type in his mouth all the time when setting it, and so did everybody else. If he did that in the 1960s and 1970s, Franklin did that in the 1700s--and they shared the same dental fate as well.)

Another quick note: It seems Franklin was a helluva salesman, as all of his money as a printer came, of course, from subscriptions to his newspaper. As you may imagine, he sold those himself, as well. Since he was very strong at interpersonal communication (he joined lots of philosophical clubs, and started a lot of those, and social clubs), this may have been easy for him. As I said, he was well liked; it seems that nobody tired of him asking them to buy subscriptions to everything, from his paper, to his Almanack, to other pamphlets and start-ups of his friends, social and political.

And--he made a lot of money from almost-Ponzi schemes. He'd take on apprentices, or help printers from other states, and when they got situated with their own businesses, they had to give him a percentage of their business for X number of years. This would sooner or later end, but I'll bet it was part of a contract. Lots of guys happily signed up for it, so it seems to be a mostly win-win for everyone involved.

He also had lots of trouble with the wrong friends when he was younger. He'd at first make business decisions or friendships with men who proved to be unreliable, drunkards (a big problem), lazy, greedy, or inept. Surprisingly, he never broke off these friendships. They did, in bitterness of his success, and he was always glad to be rid of them--but he always waited for them to break up with him! I was glad to see this, as I've made similar mistakes over the years. Sometimes I did the breaking-up, sometimes they did, but I was always glad it ended. Who needs the drama?

(Doesn't look like the Ben Franklin we're used to, does it? Painted during his lifetime by Benjamin Wilson, in 1759.)

A benefit for Ben Franklin in Philadelphia at the time: No major papers or magazines yet; no monopoly on the time or money of the successful. The literacy rate, of course, was low, but I'll bet the time spent reading of those who could read was a lot higher than it is now. I know a helluva lot of college-educated people who never read. Don't you? Franklin's paper and other printed material sort of formed a monopoly at the time in Philly.

Franklin started the first public library in the colonies, and the first volunteer fire departments. He helped set up successful postal delivery and was the first Postmaster General. We know about his kite and electricity experiments (not covered in his book), but he also had hundreds (!) of other patents, for things like printing presses (obviously), wood-burning stoves, and who knows what else. He just glosses over this accomplishment.

He spent a lot of time with his personal blueprint for personal and moral success, which I'll go over in a different blog. (Go to stevenbelanger[dot]blogspot[dot]com.) This section of his book is what most people remember about his Almanack--another huge success never gone into in his book. In fact, there are no aphorisms here--no, "Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise." Ever see the magnet that has the second half crossed off and replaced with, "Tired as hell"?

Anyway, the very surprising thing about his Autobiography is what's not in it. You would think that a successful printer would print a lot about his business success, political success, scientific success, social success, personal success, or his moral, social or political views--but he never did, outside of his Almanack (which everyone knew he wrote). But his press was never a publishing house. There were lots of successful, literate guys with libraries--which he mentions frequently and of course approved of--but it seems he was just too busy to print his own Autobiography.

He finally did when he was much older--while he was bored in France or in England in one of his diplomatic posts later in life. He had a very detailed outline, starting from his very early Boston days, but he only finished a very small percentage of it while alive. No Almanack. No Declaration of Independence! No Revolutionary War! No coverage of his diplomatic successes, before or after the war. (The British and French, apparently, loved him. So did a lot of women over there, if you catch my drift.) He was already a widower when the war came, and I think he re-married afterwards, but was never at home. I'm guessing that he spent a lot more time in France and England in his life than he ever spent in Philadelphia. This is definitely true after the war; he was a very successful diplomat in France. He served in this capacity from 1776 to 1785, and he died in 1790.

I could go on. Very, very interesting life. Very interesting guy. Highly recommended.

Intelligently Believing : The Fifth Gospel by Ian Caldwell

Photo: from KirkusReviews.com (which gave it a good review), at this website.

In America today, we are living through days that juxtapose intelligence versus blind faith. This book shows, as I also believe, that you can have blind faith without sacrificing intelligence. That you can believe and still think, and that you don't have to believe what someone tells you, but should instead read, think and believe for yourself. Having blind faith in someone like Jesus is fine; having blind faith in what someone tells you Jesus said and thought maybe is not. Why not read the Bible, think about it yourself, read about the Bible, think about that, and then read the Bible again? I did that, and still do. I don't know yet what I believe, but whatever it is, I assure you, it's mine, and not anyone else's. You're responsible for your beliefs, so they'd better be your own.

This book, blessedly, says that. Father Alex is a Gospel teacher, but not a blind believer. He's very religious, but doesn't believe everything--and for good reason. He reads and he thinks for himself, and his beliefs are stronger, and more pure, because of it.

A good lesson for us all. In politics, in religion, in everything.

Very well-written, intelligent and character-focused novel about a murder, an exhibit in Rome, and a "fifth gospel" that involves different branches of Christianity and the Shroud of Turin. There's a lot of biblical history here; never is it too much, or too heavy. There's a lot about the daily life of an Eastern Orthodox priest (who can marry and procreate) and his son in Rome. This man's brother, also an important priest, is accused of murder, and he still hasn't recovered from his wife's departure.

Despite the very good, but not over-long or overly-descriptive writing, and despite the biblical history, the Papal history, the Roman history, and the mystery itself, the crux of this book is actually the relationship between father and son. They need to survive together, which is difficult in itself, but also must survive the abandonment a wife, a mother, and, later, of a brother and of friends. All they have, it seems, is each other, and it's going to have to be enough. Yet he wants to teach his son to do what's right, including thinking for yourself amidst much theological noise. He also wants to live an authentic and honest life, and to teach his son to do the same.

We read some really good writing about these characters, about characterizations, about Rome, and a Catholic trial, and a lot of history that never bores or overwhelms. The mystery is not over when you think it is, and the characters ring true, as does the final end of this mystery.

It's told in first-person, present-tense, which is an interesting choice. Normally an author chooses this tense when he wants to keep the writing thrilling, with a you-are-there kind of feel. That's not necessary here, and isn't really accomplished, and it's not a failure. My guess is that Caldwell chose this tense to make the reader like he's walking in Rome, in this mystery, with Alex, the main character, and with his son. This is done as much for the local flavor and sightseeing, like the reader is walking with a travel guide through Rome, through the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter's, through the streets. It's a good choice, though I didn't realize it until the middle of the book and saw its effects.

This book took 10 years for Caldwell to write, and it apparently led to a lot of hardship, as he mentions in his acknowledgements. Ten years is a long time to follow up a monster best-seller (2004's The Rule of Four); this apparently upset his publisher at the time, and they apparently let him know it, probably by taking away an advance, or canceling a contract, or something like that. But he stuck with it, and his agent stuck with him--ironic, as the main theme of this book is faith, strength, integrity and abandonment. Art imitates life.

If you're interested in any of the things described above, read this book. It's not as esoteric as this genre often can be, and there's no judgement, and there's a fair share of intelligence and deep emotion--a hard balance. I didn't like The Rule of Four, but I took a chance on this. I'm glad I did.

My Book Sacrifice

I've been tagged by a blogger friend and a vlogger friend--that'd be a person who makes videos as a blog, rather than a written blog like this; such a blog is usually on YouTube--to do an entry based on the following 4 scenarios:

1) An Over-Hyped book: Let's start this off with a Zombie Apocalypse! Let's say you're in a book store, just browsing, when BAM! ZOMBIE ATTACK. An announcement comes over the PA System saying that the military has discovered that the zombies' only weakness is over-hyped books. What book that everyone else says is amazing but you really hated do you start chucking at the zombies knowing that it will count as an over-hyped book and successfully wipe them out?!

2) A Sequel: Let's say you've just left the salon with a SMASHING new haircut and BOOM: Torrential downpour. What sequel are you willing to use as an umbrella to protect yourself? 

3) A Classic: Let's say you're in a lecture and your English teacher is going on and on about how this classic changed the world, how it revolutionized literature and you get so sick of it that you chuck the classic right at his face because you know what? This classic is stupid and it's worth detention just to show everyone how you feel! What Classic did you chuck?

4) Your least favourite book of life!: Let's say that you're hanging out at the library when BAM global warming explodes and the world outside becomes a frozen wasteland. You're trapped and your only chance for survival is to burn a book. What is the book you first run to, your least favourite book of all life, what book do you not fully regret lighting?

These four scenarios originated on YouTube by Ariel Bissette, and she explains it way better than I could. Watch that video here: http://youtu.be/Z_2UxYi8fOA.

So, the disclaimer: These are just my opinions. Can I say that again? These are just my opinions! (I was gonna put that all in caps, but that's rude.) One of the coolest things about books is that people get very, very, very serious about them. They will get offended by the opinions of others. Books can be so personal! So I get that. And I dig that. But that's why my opinions are strongly felt, too. You don't have to agree with them! That's the point!

If you disagree or if you agree, let me know. Feel free to answer these in a comment, or in your own blog.

And I gotta add: I was so PISSED at the following vlog that I almost left a comment! The vlog is from a usually-amusing and creative and smart, and always energetic vlogger named Christine Riccio. She has a vlog about books, where she talks a lot about a book, and reviews it and rates it, and she really gets into what she's read. Anyway, in her Book Sacrifice, she said that the classic she thought was terrible was The Catcher in the Rye, and she slams it. This book was Mark David Chapman's favorite (he shot John Lennon, if you're too young to know), but so what? Lots of religious books are the faves of killers past and present, so don't make me go there. Anyway, the specific vlog of hers referenced here is at this site: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0pEK25Z7PPs so you should see it. And I didn't leave a comment because, well, have you read the negative comments that losers leave on internet articles and YouTube videos? I mean, are you kidding me?!? Why do these people not have anything else better to do? Anger and bitterness are nasty, nasty things!

My answers:

photo: from the book's Wikipedia page

1. An over-hyped book I'd clobber a zombie with? (Does that mean it has to be big enough to be used as a weapon?) Well, where do I start? I have to say...Just about any John Green book. Great philosophical ideas and themes, so-so writing. And often books based on philosophical concepts (which most of his are) do not translate well into print, because you have to create a plot for them. Doing that for philosophical concepts can be slippery and metaphysical. Like, you can't touch it. Example: The Fault in our Stars. Two teens with life-threatening diseases are trying to keep it real, and are looking for the meaning of life, or just plain Meaning in general. They find it in the seemingly-real work of an author who turns out to be a boozing butthole, who is not his persona, who does not keep it real, who is in fact just a real jerk. Okay, except...can two teens with these diseases and cancer really travel that far? And don't get me started on Looking for Alaska. I know John Green is huge in the YA and teen world, and that's very cool. Keep reading him! (Just don't ask me to.) I'd throw other YA titles here, like any of the Twilight (You don't fall in love with vampires! You kill them! They're evil! They're not good for dates, or to introduce to your parents, or to take to Sunday dinner!) or Divergent series. And any Nick Sparks book.

photo: from the book's Wikipedia page

2. The worst sequel of all time is Doctor Sleep, the awful, shitty, boring, badly-written travesty of a sequel to the pitch-perfect classic The Shining. I can't tell you how angry this book made me. It sucked! Danny of The Shining turned out to be this?!? Are you shitting me? And Jack Torrance turning up at the end to push her off the cliff? And she screams "F--- you" as she falls? How...base! ARGH! I normally love Stephen King books. I've read them all and I still have them all. But when he's bad, Oh My Lord...

A close runner-up here would be the sequel to To Kill A Mockingbird. This manuscript was sent to the publisher by Harper Lee's money-grubbing agent, and she found it in Harper Lee's sister's safety deposit box. Harper Lee had had a stroke and late-onset dementia when she signed the papers to publish this. I'm thinking she had no idea of what she was signing. She infamously published that one book, despite offers of millions of dollars to publish others. Would she not publish for over 50 years and then do so on her deathbed? And the iconic, peace-making Atticus Finch as an old, angry racist?!? Are you shittin' me?!? And why was this found in Harper Lee's sister's safety deposit box? The murder / mystery fan in me thinks it was because her sister thought she'd publish it and make millions if Harper Lee died first...but she didn't! I'll bet Harper Lee had no idea where this manuscript was, that it was long gone and long lost. It's actually the book that was going to be Mockingbird, but the publisher thought it was too negative and suggested she write something else, so she wrote what became Mockingbird. So it's actually just an early draft! That a publisher allowed this to be made and tarnish the genius of her actual, only published book. A TRAVESTY!!! I haven't read it, and never will. I know someone who's an English teacher, and she's married to a lawyer, and they named their son Atticus (yes), and even she refuses to read this. Luckily for her son, most people will never associate his name with the guy from this book!!!

photo: Charles Dickens, from his Wikipedia page

3. The worst classic? I couldn't finish The Lord of the Rings until I saw the movies first. Tried a great many times. But a lot of it was good. I stalled at the Tom O'Bedlam part, or whatever he was called. Never even appeared in the movies. Anything by Charles Dickens. I've tried to get through A Christmas Carol. Still can't do it. I tried reading all of A Tale of Two Cities. Still can't do it. The sentences are just too damn long. Great individual paragraphs--notably the first and last, a classic example of bookending--and the last scenes are classics. That's how we should read Dickens today--just the classic scenes. 

Why so many words? 

Because he originally published his novels as serials in magazines. 

And he owned the magazines. 

And he paid by the word.

photo: from the book's Wikipedia page

4. My least favorite book of all time? See #2. Throw Rose Madder there, too. I stopped reading that one when this woman sat on the bad guy and peed on him. Yes. Books that were so bad they made me actually angry. Like, strike someone across the face angry. I'm an angry bitter little man and I don't care. I once read a mystery / cop novel, when I first started the 20th draft of Cursing the Darkness, I forget the title now--::tries remembering title, even keywords to Google it, but can't--and it was sooooooooo bad. Sentences like: "I got the call to go to the murder site. But I first finished my dinner. Funny how these always happen during dinner. And the dead aren't going anywhere." Are you f---in' sh---in' me?!? I mean, how bad does writing have to be to be published, anyway?!? So laughable I couldn't get angry because it was just sooooooooo bad!!!

So, those are my answers. What say you? Comment, or email, or write your own blog--whatever!

No matter what, keep reading!

Thanks for reading my blog! Bye! 

Jackson the Greyhound Doing Better

A loud call-out to those of you who have emailed, called, or have otherwise sent get-well messages--via other media or in physical reality--to Jackson the Greyhound. Surgery to remove the cancer was apparently a success. The specialist, who did not perform the surgery, said that "over 99.9%" of the cancer was removed. And, since this cancer is the slowest acting form, it is "likely that, at his age, he will die of something else." It may not sound like it at first, but this was actually a good thing to hear. The Old Man will be 14 on Halloween, and he's still very energetic, very hungry and very spoiled.

So thanks for all the positivity, law of positive attraction, etc. Greatly appreciated and undoubtedly beneficial. Jackson thanks you as well.

A Bat in My Bathroom -- Musings by the Firepit 7.9.16

Photo: I would've taken a pic of the bat in my bathroom (yes), but I'd chickened out.

So I've been away for about three weeks from this blog. As I sit here, after musing by the firepit, I'll share partly why I've been away:

--A close family member passed, someone who was sort of a second father to me, especially after my real one passed. Wake and funeral, and I was honored to be a pallbearer, and then...well, I just didn't feel like doing much for awhile. I won't lie: I had the Poor-Me's. This made me feel even worse, and then I told myself to get over myself, and, well, it got ugly.

--I finally decided to update my cell, as I tired of everyone scoffing at it. So what if it was about 5-6 years old? It was the one I got to replace my flip-top! So I was eligible for a free upgrade, as you might imagine, which means (I told my better half) that I would be relieved of a couple hundred bucks, instead of more. I got the newest Samsung Galaxy, and a tablet, and I upgraded my cell phone account and my cable account, as I was paying a lot for things I wasn't using. I walked out of there with better contracts that cost me the same I'm paying now, but with more HD, a better box, and a free tablet. The phone wasn't exactly free, as I suspected, but would instead cost me much less than its $400 cost if I broke it down over infinite months, with a rebate, etc. But the newest stuff makes it worthwhile, especially the camera (you can judge by the pic above, as compared to all past pics on this blog) and the email access. And I'm not a tech guy, but boy the camera is much better and it's now so easy to delete emails at doctor offices and during commercials.

photo: from wildlife-removal.com, here. One of these guys was in my bathroom for about 12 hours.

--I got a bat in my house. I mean, the flying kind. You have not lived until you have seen a bat hanging upside-down from your bathroom window.

I was working on the same PC (yes, I know, why not the tablet? Or the phone? Or my Mac?) at about 1 a.m. when I heard something fluttering outside my office door, in the hallway. I knew immediately what it was. Unhappy. (I figure it came in when I walked inside from the upper deck after watching mucho fireworks up and down the bay and cove where I live.) It flew into my bathroom, and I shut the door. Then I called the Wildlife Emergency number I found on the internet. It said it was 24-hours, but I had to leave a message. They haven't called back yet, and it's been several days now. I then called a pest control company that handled bats (not all do). I said to the woman, "I have a bat in my bathroom." She said, "Oh, no! Say it isn't so!" I then left my contact numbers and my email and was told Fred would be there from 10-12 a.m. This was at about 11 p.m. I checked in my bathroom, with stealth. I didn't see it. I walked in. It flew out of my shower and I ran out and closed the door. I couldn't sleep until about 5 a.m. My better half got me up at 7 a.m. and I was wide awake. I peeked in again: it was hanging upside down from my Venetian blinds, exactly where I'd stand to do my #1 morning business, if you know what I'm sayin'. Good thing I saw it fluttering and didn't just walk in there at 7 a.m. the next morning like I normally would. I would slowly look to my right as I was draining, and I would get the shock of my life. And probably bitten. You would've heard me from wherever you live.

photo: from bat-house.net. This is the bathouse I have on a tree in my backyard. But, unlike this one, which you can see is on a telephone pole, bats don't want to go in mine. Apparently, they prefer my real house--specifically, my bathroom. See all those little guys in this one?!? Ewwww...

Anyway, I call the place back at 11:55, as Fred had not showed. I got transferred to five different people. The last one repeated back to me incorrect phone numbers for Fred to call me, and I admit to being upset. Surprisingly, Fred arrives. First thing out of his mouth: "So, what's the problem?" I said, "I have a bat in my bathroom." He turns pale and asks me if I'm serious. He'd shown up in a regular car, carrying a large screwdriver. (?) I said I was serious. He calls his supervisor, who must've said to hit me with the plans they offer. He'll get rid of the bat either way, but his boss correctly guessed that I'd be so freaked that I'd buy their biggest package of long-term care. Turns out, I did just that, to the tune of over $1,300. It involved a total concealment of my home and roof, except they couldn't put down screens on the roof until after August 1st, as it's against the law, because what if a mama bat lays eggs in my attic, but then she leaves from the screen and can't get back in and all the baby bats die in my attic? The baby bats are federally protected until the end of September. My attic and my sanity aren't. So these two guys came over the next day and laid down lots of traps, and heavy sticky things, and squirted black goo around my home's perimeter, and in the attic, and in the basement, and on my upper deck, though I reminded everyone that I think the damn thing had flown in when I opened the door. They told me that bats and mice need just a dime of space to get in. They spent about three hours here.

But I digress. Fred needed to get rid of the bat, and he was clearly unhappy about it. He kept calling his supervisor, in the hope, I think, that this man would come over and do it instead. Apparently his advice was for Fred to throw a towel over the thing and pummel it with the handle of the monsterous screwdriver. I posited that we could open the bathroom door. I would stand on the parlor stairs waving a broom so it wouldn't go down there, or I could tape a sheet to cover the stairs. I would have all the upstairs doors closed, except the one that led to the room that led to the door that opened up to the deck, where I think the damn thing entered to begin with. We would essentially just chase it out that way. He called his supervisor back. This man again suggested a towel and some pummeling. I asked Fred if he'd ever done this before, at all, and he said No. I also asked him why he hadn't been told that I had a bat in my bathroom, as I'd mentioned that several dozens of times, and I wasn't happy with the wrong contact numbers, either, which I had also mentioned a ton of times. "Yeah, our home office sucks," he said. (I'd already written the check.) He took a picture of the hanging bat and texted it and emailed it to his supervisor, who said he'd never received them when Fred called him maybe twenty minutes later. I almost asked him to email me the pic for this blog, but I didn't feel that was proper, and I can't for the life of me tell you why.

By this time we'd been having a long conversation in my bathroom, with the door open, standing next to my sleeping guest on my window blinds, because Fred correctly surmised that the bat wouldn't care and it was sleeping and it wasn't going anywhere. It was disconcerting to see how still and quiet these things are. I also wasn't happy that Fred said he suspected I had an attic full of the things, and that that's where this one came from, and that he'd climbed down a central air tube, or something. (It is true that I had a TON of mice poop in the attic and basement when I got here five years ago, and I wouldn't be surprised if there in fact had been bats in this belfry.) When I said I hadn't heard anything flying in there in five years, he pointed to our pleasantly sleeping friend. "You wouldn't," he said. This was unnerving, and I've been a little skeeved since. The two guys who visited the next day disagreed with this diagnosis; they said there hadn't been any new activity in my attic in some time. They were in there for over half an hour, shining their lights everywhere, and one was amazed at how much space there was amongst the eaves, and above the doors. This space goes all the way back to the end of the house, where there's no other access panel. Nobody volunteered to go all the way in. But they also spent over half an hour in the basement and in the crawlspace between the basement and the garage. And they did black poo the entire perimeter of the house, which is quite a bit.

Finally, after fiddling and farting around for over an hour and a half because he (understandably) didn't want to deal with the thing, he finally decided that he'd take two of these hand-sized black sticky things from his car--which is all he came armed with, and is apparently all he places; he's the salesman, I'm guessing--and get the bat out with those. He came back in the house with them, and took maybe fifteen minutes to climb the five steps to my bathroom. We conversed more outside the bathroom door; we'd become veritable pals by now. Finally he took each one in hand, holding them like EMTs hold the paddles before they shock the dead guy, and we paused again. He took a deep breath and slowly closed the bathroom door. (His company's insurance dictated that the customer could not be in any danger, so I couldn't go in, which was fine with me. Plus, I put myself in charge of being the one to open the bathroom door and the front door--fast!--if necessary.) Before this, I'd armed him with a plastic eye protector, and he'd found some really thick gloves in his car. I'd let my dog out in the back, in case things went bad and it flew away from us, so that my dog would be the only one without rabies.

So I stood outside the bathroom door, listening intently. There was nothing at all for about five minutes. I was about to open the door, or ask if he was okay, when he said, "Okay," and I opened the door. I purposely didn't look at him, or at his hands, but I intuited that he held the two black things together like a giant S'mores sandwich. He seemed greatly relieved and at peace, and he wasn't bleeding or frothing at the mouth. He walked slowly to the front door with me and we got outside, and he said something about seeing if it was out of its misery. I offered a plastic bag (we have tons for the dog walks) and said he could just throw it in, tie it up and throw it in my large garbage thing. He said it had been great talking with me, and this had been a first for him, and he clearly just needed to go somewhere and have either a drink or a nap. He'd spent about two hours here.

In summary, then, that's why I've been away: passing of close family member and my self-pity; phone and tablet; a bat in my bathroom.