Arlington National Cemetery, I went there, once. It was during my trip to Washington Dic in September of 2006. I wrote about that length of time extensively but simply lack the discipline to order things these days.

Ennywaw, my feet had been totally destroyed by a combination of walking everywhere, doing it for hours, wearing cheap shoes, and this being the third day of that. We (we being us) had already checked out of the hotel (the mysteriously named George Washington hotel), and I assumed we had begun the long stupid car trip back to Connecticut, but then a graveyard appeared and, well, you know. Graveyards. Who wouldn’t want to get out and take a look? Evidently no one I’m directly related to.

I was a bit worried, having left my whip and case of holy water at home, but I went out among the dead anyway. What choice did I have? I was only 23 years old, for smedley’s sake. I followed the procession up a few hills, at which point the pain returned and it became clear that even if I turned back immediately I would not escape undamaged. Not from undead with military training angry at my failure to meet the posted reverence specifications, my feet. I told you my feet hurt.

How am I supposed to silently acknowledge invisible death boxes when I feel like I may die myself? My besocked limb terminuses, they were as fried fish filets, and I don’t even like fish, so if I fell down and faced starvation it would take me longer than usual to get started eating them, and by then it may be too late. This does present an interesting question, at least: If you drop dead in a cemetery, what is done to your corpse?

Not actual photograph

People brought kids. People brought babies. Why would you do this to them? You are not teaching them rethpect. You are teaching them resentment. I know. I’ve been going to awful war monuments for years. I’m fairly certain my day at Shiloh in 1990 or so was one of the worst of my life up to and beyond that point, and I had more practical shoes then. I had not known such disappointment up to then and thus could not protect myself against it. Death is disappointing.

In the considerably more recent past, as I was retreating to automobile, fleeing my fate among the dead Kennedies, I saw people coming. “Goooooh baaaaack!”, I truly wanted to warn them. But I couldn’t. The signs said to be quiet. If I’d started exclaiming and making a fuss, why, there would probably be dispatched a security guard to come pick me up and carry me off the premises.

I’d never put a little icon on my page that says “I honor people, not graves,” but this whole business still bothers me a bit. Don’t ever put me in the ground, please.

Nuy.

For whatever reason, either fear of mega-americans or angry zombies, or maybe my camera was full of pictures of “please excuse the inconvenience” signs from the previous day’s National Zoo tour, I did not end up with an actual image from within the bone zone, but here’s a book about drawing with a cover by someone who can’t. It’s illustration now! after all, not illustration in a couple minutes!. This book tells you how to turn out the artistic equivalent of microwave popcorn. I guess. I assumed, looking at this picture I’ve long since forgotten producing, it was all Gary Baseman (for that is the artist’s name) junk but a glance online tells me this is in some form represents a wide variety of people who mass produce what is likely ugly commercial rubbish. Indeed, this cover now seems to say “150 illustrators” on it, but I can’t blame myself for not studying it with but the same dedication and interest I give an end-user license agreement. Also, the author is Julius Wiedemann, not Jesus Wilberman. I was mildly disappointed. But I’m used to it.