With the usual sensitivity I generally show for those who have met with disaster after doing something really stupid, by now many of you have heard or read about the fellow recently that put a “pet” rattlesnake in his mouth and was bitten. Had he died, he would have been a contender for the much sought after Darwin Award that so far has eluded me despite my many efforts.

For example, most of us as children learned to make paste of flour and water; but hominy, “properly prepared,” makes for an adhesive that would put “Liquid Nails” to shame. You won’t find it in any Betty Crocker or Martha Stewart cookbook, but some few of you know the procedure, usually the purview of bachelors, of putting a can in a pan of water to warm on a stove; saves on using and washing unnecessary dishes. On one occasion some years ago, I had done this with a can of hominy. But the phone interrupted me, and becoming absorbed in conversation I forgot about the can of hominy. It was only when it sounded and felt like a bomb had exploded in the kitchen I was forcefully reminded of this lapse of memory.

Ruefully, I surveyed the damage. Not only had I forgotten about the can on the stove, the phone had interrupted me before punching the necessary hole in the can to allow the escape of steam. Readers may well imagine the kind of “bomb” I had unintentionally created. The bomb had punched a hole in the ceiling and made a huge dent in the top of the stove, and with the forceful explosion of the can each kernel of hominy had become a yellow “missile” plastering the walls and ceiling of the kitchen. It was while attempting to clean up the horrendous mess I discovered the marvelous adhesive characteristic of hominy “properly prepared.” Shortly into the cleanup thoughts of applying pneumatic power tools and an auto body grinder to the job crossed my mind.

Some people have been critical of the massive search that was mounted for Steve Fossett and still ongoing; correctly pointing out no such search would have been conducted for the average Joe that went missing under similar circumstances. But given his fame, it isn’t unlike the media frenzy over some psychopathic ex-football player.

We still don’t know if Fossett was on some clandestine mission around Area 51, whether he and his plane were taken into a flying saucer by extraterrestrials as per “This Island Earth,” whether he died of a heart attack and the plane landed itself as has been known to happen, or whether he was the victim of doing something really stupid. After all, even really smart people are capable of doing really stupid things. And it’s not impossible if Fossett is eventually found he will have been mummified by the sun, sand, and clear desert breeze.

Traveling Route 66 in the 40s was a real adventure in motoring across the country. I was entranced by the many desert “museums” that contained live rattlesnakes, huge tarantulas and scorpions, artifacts like two Gila monsters chomping each other’s tails in a circle of death, meteorites, crystals and geodes, Indian jewelry, hats, pipes, baskets and blankets; there was so much to inspire the imagination of a child. I especially wanted one of the souvenirs of the Painted Desert. There were small glass bottles with layers of the colored sands in them; they were really beautiful. But one place we visited had something that held me spellbound. It was a mummified body identified as a notorious outlaw. He had been lynched by a mob and left hanging from a tree in the Arizona desert, the weathered rope still around his neck and rusted manacles on his wrists; now on display for all to see. I’m not sure such a display would be permitted these days.

And, of course, there is “Psycho” to remind us of how strange adventures in taxidermy and mummification take place, and some of you will recall the story not that long ago about a mummified body of a man in Germany. He had been dead in his apartment for a full year before being discovered. There is a lot of weird stuff out there for inquiring minds. Right here where I live I won’t be surprised if I read a headline in our local paper: “Mummified body found in Bodfish.”

No one has seen or heard from Junky Jerry. Apart from locals here in the Kern River Valley, no one would really know much about him, and most of us accepted him as another local colorful character adding further distinction to Downtown Bodfish. He got the nickname over twenty years ago by touting junk as “antiques and collectables.” Not that he didn’t have any real antiques and collectables, but much of the stuff was junk; hence the name. Eventually he accepted it, and tried to turn a vice into virtue; kind of like Pride-Integrity-Guts. But I gave the cops credit for trying.

However, Jerry’s biggest problem was his mouth. He didn’t speak, he shouted. And his opinions were so abrasive; often outrageous to many people none of us knew how he managed to remain in business since more often than not he would chase prospective customers out of his store. And as he grew older, many began to suspect he had truly become cronked in the attic.

I had met Jerry when he first opened his place nearly thirty years ago. Somehow, I managed to tolerate him and his mouth and was probably the closest thing to a friend he had simply by virtue of longevity. So when I noticed his truck had not been moved from his backyard for a spell, something quite unusual, I tried calling but got no response. Knocks at the door and ringing the bell went unanswered. Jerry was elderly and lived alone with a cat for company. He had gotten it as a kitten and made it a housecat, thoroughly spoiling it. So I knew if Jerry had dropped dead there would be no one to take care of the cat. Ah, hah! Now readers know of my priorities in this case, further evidence of my sensitivity in such matters.

When there are no relatives to keep track of the elderly, it sometimes happens that one of these people can in fact be dead in their homes for a lengthy period of time before authorities are alerted. And even so, while the police can be notified of such concerns they can’t just bust open a door to check things out. And in Jerry’s case, he had openly expressed the desire to shoot a few of them on several occasions, even meeting me at the door once gun in hand. So I have done my part by expressing concern for Jerry to authorities, but it may yet come down to that mummified body found in Bodfish. Well, there is a lot of weird stuff out there; and things just keep getting weirder.