WORDS FROM ABOVE A note comes down from the boss, e.e. cummings style: "ed gray, the scientology lady is stopping by fri afternoon to see me if you'd like to meet her. paul g. (He doesn't use uppercase in his notes, and I somehow like that.)

Ohhhhhhh no. Not the Scientology Lady. And those people always come in pairs, like copperhead snakes or space aliens, and one of them is always a lawyer. Sometimes both. I have a phobia against snakes and lawyers. Not necessarily space aliens. I've not heard yet of a copperhead snake being a lawyer, so that's good.

I decline the offer, replying that it would really mess up my Friday to talk with them. Friday is my production day; it's like deadline on the daily side.

He responds something like, so it's ok if mine is messed up?

Still, better his than mine, but I didn't say that.

Well, now I did.

The Church Lady continues to be all whopper-jawed over something I wrote about that I still consider a valid complaint: A book supposedly written by Scientology founder, science-fiction writer and inventor of the E-meter and the Church of the Ever Increasing Fee Schedule, L. Ron Hubbard. The book went to the best-seller list last year for one week, prompting speculation that church members went out and bought mass quantities to force it to the list. None of that is a proven fact, although that tactic has worked before, and indeed, the church as been accused in print of doing that in the past. And there was that complaint about The Famous Headless Man on a Scientlolgy Web site that was never answered or even addressed. I never did get around to saying that Charlie Manson was a "Theta clear" Scientologist, according to L.A. prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi in his book Helter Skelter. Charlie arrived at that "clear" category in prison long before the famous Tate- LaBianca murder case. Long before poor Shorty Shea. Apparently he wasn't clear enough. Instead, the Church Lady made some vague remarks about everybody being nice and about being just as good as the Baptists.

When the church people are due to arrive, I leave for a really long lunch. On returning, I learn that they waited around after the meeting and ambled on to the back of the building to meet me, too. Drat. I missed it. Still, they may have sprinkled some church dust on my chair, one never knows. I could be a Scientologist right this minute. Hey, how about that E-meter?

Those church people really need to meet my friend, the actuary Ramone, who knows my lifeline and who is the real power behind the opposition to the CO$, as he refers to them in his obscure messages. I channel for Ramone on this, believe me. I called him, but he was out of town, way down in Monterey, Mexico, his wife Lisa (the snake handler, she's called; they're kind of rough trade in the off hours) tells me, working out some high-level NAFTA deal with the local police, probably involving guns and factories. I seriously hope it's not drugs. He became an expert on guns and the art of the sniper in his three tours "in country," as those guys like to say. I seriously doubt that Ramone, being an old Vietnam vet and one who prefers Orange Crush sodas, Kool cigarettes and ShurFine instant coffee would be involved in something like drugs. Ramone has become a changed man since baby Gabby has come along.

Oh well. Maybe next time Ramone will be available to meet the Church Lady.

You bet.

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