Monday, May 18, 2015
First, let me say, I take no delight in the death of anyone. Least of all people I like. There's those I don't like and they die, but I still don't celebrate. I don't, because I'm very busy working on an alibi, and if I'm celebrating, that's a bad sign. On the other hand, if I look unnaturally sad that's suspicious, too.
So I basically have no delight in the death of anyone. Although, of course, I recognize that death comes sooner or later for everyone. Even me, as I know for a fact I will live to 85, then sometime after that--- everyone will be more alive than me. Sad thing to contemplate.
I do the same thing everyone does when someone famous passes, I contemplate it. Like B.B. King. Who was born a particular day a long time ago, then just recently died. Who was B.B. King? He was a famous blues guitarist and singer. He honed his craft and after honing it was really good. This is where B.B. King and I differ. Whereas I play guitar, I'm quite bad at it. And I've sung the blues, also not very good. B.B. King excelled at it and was wanted for public performances. I sang at church a few times, significantly depressing the offering.
The weirdest part about this for me is, I was within 20 feet of B.B. King and yet never laid eyes on him! How is that possible, you wonder? I'll hint at what I mean: He was in his tour bus and I was in the car right behind him, in stopped traffic, mind you. At that time what could I do? Rush his bus and demand entrance? I have my pride. If he knew I was in the car right behind me, he could've made the first move. But he didn't. Stuck up much? I'm not saying yes, I'm not saying no. The long and short of the story is, Neither of us made the first move, so we never met.
Now he goes and dies on me and I haven't got a chance to make it right. Or to insist that he make it right. The time has passed. We had that one moment in the sun, which completely fizzled, thanks to mutual stubbornness, and now we have to live with our regrets. That's me, whereas he took his regrets to his grave. Nothing I wished on him, it just happened.
But today I'm not thinking about how it is when you don't meet. I'm thinking of our relative talents. He was so good, and I'm so poor at playing guitar. But once a man dies -- and this is indisputable -- no matter how good he was before, he's no good now. You can't gainsay that. Which means, at long last -- and it's literally taken all my life -- as poor as I am, I am a better guitar player (and even blues singer!) than B.B. King!
I've been working on my fragile ego for years. But every time someone great passes, I become that much stronger. Whether it's as an actor -- and I'm now a better actor than even many one-time Academy Award winners -- or a musician, or any great artist, my talents, modest as they are, are better. I started young, too. I was six or seven when Buddy Holly died, making me quite the young prodigy! Then other folks steadily passed on as I grew up -- talented people -- bringing forth time after time even greater excellence in me.
In recent years, a lot of the classic rock singers and musicians have unknowingly given me a lot to brag about, with B.B. King being just the latest. It's sad to say goodbye to him, and we were literally that close with the bus and car, but it's as they say, Every dark cloud has a silver lining for someone. Me.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Note: I'm off to a slow start on this. Since it's my 2000th post, all of a sudden I'm worried about quality. How to begin? Just begin, stupid...
The last few days I've been worrying myself sick about money mules. It's a big deal because, frankly, I've been putting a lot of money into them. The idea's basically sound: Send money mules (people) out with money, stay at home myself, then let them bring back their earnings. I'd share with them some pittance and keep the rest myself.
The big problem -- it's a poison pill -- is none of them returns. They apparently think, "I've got $100,000 in my hot little hands, I'm footloose and fancy free, why should I return?" Which, I guess, I might also think were I in their position. The bastards!
Now, of course I'm not focused on any of this in a vacuum. There's plenty of others out there, now alerted to the money-making possibilities (and the development rights), jumping into the fray. And as far as I know, coming up with better techniques, ones that actually work.
That being the case, it leaves me more or less high and dry. Except for what a small-time local operator might make at the edges, two-bit stuff, while flying under the radar and keeping his activities lowkey. Similar to small taco places, that once surpassed in quality by the likes of Taco Bell, et. al., just can't compete. We spit out their crap food in a second and flock to the corporate counterpart.
Still, shouldn't a little guy, say, in the money mule business, flourish? It hasn't been proven that he shouldn't. But in any arms race there's going to be winners and losers. Those with the greatest resources have the upper hand.
The time to get busy, then, is now. Find a way to make money mules more trustworthy! There's no time to waste! Time is of the essence, ready or not! To delay is to lose! He who puts his hand to the plow ... something something something.
At this point I'm thinking my go-to strategy has to be to convey to the mules the sense that I like them, appreciate them, and trust them. Do what my mom did to me, with moderate success on her part. If I only can ... But you lose a million or so, as I have, and it does something to your confidence.
One other good tactic might be something like this, give and demand back:
I have five money mules before me. I give each one $100,000, then immediately demand back $50,000. Then half of the remainder, then another half, etc., until they have almost nothing. Then repeat, and repeat time and time again. By evening they're exhausted but hopefully have learned a message.
The arms race is heating up. This much I know for a fact, the big guys have the best psychological teams at their disposal. Just like the Nazis. You have your hands around the throat of an entire nation, of course you can command resources. And what have I got? I'm one guy, no country, no Gestapo, no conglomerate, no company. I'm like the little taco guy, doing my best with diminishing resources. Peddling a little bike and throwing tacos out of the basket and hoping people pay, so to speak.
And yet I need it to work! I have no other option. The money I get from money mules today might very well fund my retirement tomorrow. Depending on how much I lose to them between now and then.... I'll either retire or keep working the system till I die.
2000: OK, that ought to hold everyone, while I express my thanks to myself for 2000 posts since this blog started. In addition to thanks, I'd like to recognize a deep inner beauty in myself that made this moment possible. Everyday, lately, I've sat in silence at the beginning of each morning, and have looked within. I've liked what I've seen, making, almost, two of me. Get that split? I should be up to 4000 by now!
Anyway, it's a measly 2000. I remember 1000 in 2010, and now 2000 in 2015. If it takes me 5 years to do 1000, that means I'll be writing my next self-congratulatory message in 2020. At which point I'll be 67. Is it normal for 62-67 year olds to write blogs like this? Seems a bit abnormal. I know my old friends -- people I know on Facebook -- are busy grilling and taking pictures of their food. Which is also a labor of love. The question is, Do they grill 2000 cuts of meat and stop to congratulate themselves?
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
We have a love match! Old Professor Woolworth and our lovely student union cafeteria lady, Ruthie! With me the middle man, seeking to ensnare Woolworth and three other psychology profs in a compromising position. Little did I know it'd end in a whirlwind mutual seduction and wedding all the same day! For that, I can only thank my lucky stars above.
As it turned out, Woolworth had his eye on Ruthie for many years. But he always figured that his being a lowly psychology professor at the university meant he had no chance with someone at her level. She was always friendly to him, yes, but was she really? As a psych prof he looked for unspoken truths and ulterior motives, to the point he was completely mixed up on which was which. While all that time Ruthie was juicy fruit, ripe for the picking by the right man.
My part in this love story was not completely pure. I'm still trying to get to the bottom of the Money Mule question, Why do money mules always take the money and run, never returning? And I asked four professors to help in the study. But first, as always, I needed to find out if they had scholarship on their minds and not just sex. Enter Ruthie, exquisitely dolled up, a temptation for each.
Sure enough, when my back was turned (so they thought, for I had cameras in nearly every room), each professor failed the test. Professor Morningwood was up first, barely waiting for me to be out of sight. His reasoning was "The early bird gets the worm" He beamed as he got Ruthie alone. "We'll start early and make love throughout the long day!" But she was repulsed, knowing he'd only make hay while the sun shined, then desert her by nightfall.
Ruthie ran, but right into the waiting grasp of Professor Cherrywood. And "grasp" is the right word. Cherrywood is a hands-on kind of guy, always seeking out the sweetest fruit and seeing if it's ripe for the picking. With skill and dexterity, he had Ruthie against the wall, doing his full appraisal. "This is good," he thought, his grubby hands all over her: "Plump, ripe, juicy, with just the right hardness and flavor," before Ruthie had had quite enough and slapped him, leaving Cherrywood in the pits.
Next, Professor Deadwood lurked in the shadows down the hall. He knew he needed her, but he was worried, "What will I do with her if I get her?" Yet he couldn't resist, with her beauty and how exquisitely she was dolled up, and the bountifulness in her every move. So great! Something in the way she moved ... made Deadwood almost move. He was certain he felt a twitch -- could it be? ... his first stirring in years? Yes! He believed it was so. Meds hadn't worked, counseling, and manual rousing techniques had all failed, but now, with his professorial gown around his ankles and trusting the sensation of that surge of confidence, he made his move. Which -- DAMN! -- ended before it began, phantom arousal playing him false...
Watching these encounters on video, I could only shake my head. These men aren't the scholars I need ... They're lecherous! Nothing on their minds but sex! I strode back and forth in the control room, fuming, wondering what I could do now. How can the money mule question be answered if I have no help? It went on like that. I was absolutely lost in confusion, consumed by my own worries. It must have been 20 minutes of pacing and sweating, and I'd lost my focus. Then I suddenly realized, "Ruthie! Woolworth!" Rushing to the panel I pushed all the buttons. Where were they?!
I raced the halls, but hearing nothing could only imagine the worst. When I thought I heard ... yes, it is ... I heard what I can only call the very subtle whispers and cooing of cuddling and loving afterglow. I almost burst in but thought better of it. You sly dog! I thought to myself of Woolworth. You took her in complete sincerity and tenderness and now she's yours ... You are the man for the job! The job of understanding Money Mules. (As it turned out, maybe Ruthie took him.)
Long story short -- let's just say they took each other -- they were totally in love. Woolworth had more going on behind that beard than anyone gave him credit for. And Ruthie, though exquisitely dolled up, was a doll in reality. Neither one had thought they were good enough for the other, and that's what kept them apart. But being alone, apart from the high station of cashiers and low station of psych profs, they realized they were soul mates. I conducted the wedding ceremony. The others served as witnesses. And we would live happily ever after.
As a wedding gift, and payment in part for Money Mule research, I sent them forth with a big box stuffed with $300,000. Whether I'll ever see them again, that I doubt. You send someone out with that kind of money, they've never been known to return.
Monday, May 11, 2015
My failure to figure out the motives of Money Mules made me a wreck. I asked myself over and over, Why do they always run instead of returning with the money? But there was no satisfactory answer, leaving me, frankly, crumpled and crying. When that happens, I'm a mess. I'm sparking and sizzling, twitching and babbling on my bed, close to destruction; I'm afraid to brush against anything lest I spontaneously combust.
I knew I needed help, but who was qualified for the job? I'm Super Brain, and if I couldn't figure it out, who could? Wracking my mind, I came up with this thought: Those who first taught me the deeper principles of people skills, psychology profs at the university! Maybe, if they put their heads together, their collective intelligence plus my own greater intelligence would give us the answer.
I should probably mention, those guys are shells of their former selves. They're bogged down from reading the same lectures since the early '60s, while I've cruised past them, making me, the student, their master in every way. It has to be a nasty feeling to watch me run laps around them as though they're standing still, but that's what you get if you lose the hold on life and scholarship you once held dear.
Then we must add sex. We all know the go-to rejuvenator for old guys, at least in their fantasies, is sex. You're old and decrepit, like my professors, and you try to prove your abiding mastery of life by sex. The main reason being, the equipment's right there in easy reach. Surely, that guy or that lady feels as I do ... We shall rise together from the ashes! they're thinking. Which, to the rest of us still holding our mental clarity, is obviously vanity.
So, anyway, I got my esteemed profs together, and threw in one fatal juicy apple of temptation by which to test them -- the cashier from the union cafeteria, Ruthie. Were I to see them entirely resolved to scholarship and not thinking of a roll in the hay to prove their scholarly manhood, then and only then could I trust them with the Money Mule question. (This is preliminary stuff. The sex stuff plows the field before we see the harvest, the "meat of the goodie," the answers I really care about.)
There they were, then, gathered in the seminar room. And each of them had his damned eyes on Ruthie, seated next to me, exquisitely dolled up! Perverts! (I would've done her myself, had my brain been just a little looser and slightly more unreliable.)
Of course I first had to set the parameters of our study and call them unto the quest: Why, when you present a Money Mule a sum of money, say $100,000, and send him forth, does he always run and never return?
They looked like they were ready to venture a few good guesses to the question. Before we could dive in, however, I wanted to inform them that I had strict ground rules:
1) Do not approach or in any way come on to Ruthie. Keep your grubby hands off Ruthie.And that's it. The professors raced forth to find their pencils and bone up on the best legal and academic scruples.
2) Abide by all the best legal and academic scruples. Give me your best work.
3) A Number 2 pencil is preferable to any and all other numbers. If it ain't Number 2, it's crap.
As for me, I fell to my knees where I stood, a shaft of light streaming through the skylight putting me in a very dramatic limelight, and asked the Lord: "Bless them, dear God, if they deserve blessing. But if they're not ready for this important task, please reveal that as well. Thou knowest what I mean."
Of course I referred to Ruthie. She really does have a fantastic allure when she's out of cafeteria scrubs and exquisitely dolled up. I glanced around and reached down, then told myself no.
Saturday, May 9, 2015
I believe it was just yesterday, I examined the money-making scheme called "Money Mules," in which selected individuals are presented with a certain amount of money. Their mission is to take it, then bring it back to you with whatever interest, profits, or winnings they made along the way. The idea is that both of you would then share the take. I've so far found one fatal flaw, the "mules" never return.
I'm an optimist by nature. I believe if you gave $100,000 to an infinite number of people, it wouldn't take very many years before you found someone honest. That's a conviction I still maintain, despite the disappointments faced thus far. My vow, first to myself, then to you, is that I will crack this nut, no matter how hard a nut it is to crack.
Some of the research has been promising, verifying objectively, and without any shadow of doubt, that people do indeed run. The data is definitive on that account. The crowning experiment went something like this:
I gave $100,000 to the father of a family. He ran.What is it about money that makes people, young or old, flee? This is where we need more research. Because the answers surely vary. In the last instance, the father probably fled because he wanted $100,000 more than his family. And the same for the mother. But that doesn't explain the children, willing to flee for such meager amounts. I'm left with the tentative conclusion, they're simply ignorant about money.
I gave $150,000 to the mother of a family. She ran
I gave varying amounts of money to their children, from $50 down to $5. They all ran, except the baby, who had the $5; he or she crawled.
I gave a chew toy to their dog. He ran. Among my other discoveries, German Shepherds run very fast.
The worst thing about it -- other than the breakup of families that might've been saved -- is now these people are fugitives from the state. They cannot come back voluntarily. They would be executed. Yes, I conducted experiments on them. But that's no excuse. I will still file charges. And if the powers that be dare cross my path, I will systematically destroy their families as well, turning them into money mules!
I know, I sound harsh. Yet, I'm not. I have sympathy, and even sorrow, to think that I had anything to do with this horrendous state of affairs for so many. It makes me feel awful, let me assure you, and I would quit immediately if I didn't think there was something more to be learned. Such as, how to make money by finding ... honest money mules. If you're 100% honest, please contact me.
Cannot human nature be changed? Are we all thieves? That's what I want to determine. Which is ironic, since human nature is one of the fields I specialized in, having received a Ph.D. in Human Environmental Science (HES). My thesis clarified some things about human expectations and disappointments, in particular having to do with a gum machine that was clearly full of gumballs but never paid off. I won't bore you with the details, except to say, people are very tenacious when the reward is in plain sight.
But I'm so damned rusty at HES -- hellishly rusty -- I think I might need help. Especially because running money mules is extremely expensive. You lose $1 million out of your personal savings a few times, that adds up. This is challenging stuff.
Here's what I advise the rest of you to do: Hold off on money mule activities until things are clarified, till we determine if there's anyone we can trust, and how we would go about finding those folks.
Friday, May 8, 2015
You need to read the conclusion first, which I will briefly state at the top: I haven't found any actual way to make money by the money mule method. The results so far are entirely negative. That's not to say there isn't a way, perhaps some variation on the honor system. But as of now, success has proven elusive.
The world of making money with money mules is potentially exciting. Part of it depends on the quality of your mules, a tiny, tiny part. The rest depends on how easily you're excited. If you're excited at the least little thing -- even to the point of irrationality -- you will find this exciting, too.
One reason it seems exciting is because there's the possibility to make more money than you have now, if not more than your wildest dreams.
How do you start? You will want to gather your resources. Anything over $1 million is a good start. Of course the more you have, the more you potentially could make. (No one's made a single dollar with this system yet, but hope springs eternal.)
Once your money's set to go, you need your own herd of money mules. These are terms for illustrative purposes. What you need are people who will take your money, then travel the various paths of their choosing until -- and here's where the system has broken down so far -- they come back to you with more money. Presumably, if they ever returned that would be a key moment.
But it is indeed a great joy to see the mules take off! They're on their way. They're happy. Your money's in their hot little hands, some of them for the first time in their lives carrying $100,000 or more. You wonder, where will they go? How much will they bring back? You're excited at the possibilities, because we've all heard over the years "Anything's possible." That's what we're banking on. Not the science of the thing, a given result, but the fulfillment of what we've all heard.
Then comes the time when you don't know what your money mules are doing. You need to have patience, since, what other option do you have? Just let the time pass. While it passes, do something interesting, perhaps take up a hobby, anything to make it pass quicker. Because, I assure you, you're going to find your patience sorely tested. Perhaps to the breaking point.
This time of testing will likely continue, as you occasionally look out your window to see if your own herd of money mules -- let's repeat that, your own herd -- is coming back. At this point, if your experience is like others, your excitement will wane. At this crucial point you must tell yourself to maintain your composure. Let your patience carry you through today, tomorrow, and all the days ahead.
Another critical moment -- sometimes coming simultaneously with looking out the window -- will be reconsidering your actions in handing out money. You will have doubt, thinking something like, "Is giving money to money mules and simply trusting them to bring you more even possible?" Of course it's possible! You just did it! What you need to ask is, "Is it likely they will return?" In your pessimism, you will think, and maybe even say aloud, "No! No! Hell no!"
But put yourself in the shoes of the money mules. Someone gives you $100,000 and sends you forth, no strings, are you going to return? You might! And that's the thread of hope you're clinging to. Maybe those mules will be like you. On the other hand, perhaps not. You're a money mule, someone gives you money, you might think, "Why should I return?" Do not let your mind take you down this channel, for that's when despair is all-consuming.
Instead, even if you see no reason to hope, do not give up. Keep your composure. Keep your trust high. And, who knows, some good may come from it. Even if it's merely the important lesson you learned: Money mules aren't all that trustworthy.
No one's yet found a way to make money by giving money to money mules. But there's always the possibility that you will be first, and hence an important pioneer in the field. So weigh the risks, and if you feel they're something you can handle, go for it!
I, however, the author of this article, shall remain blameless.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
You haven't seen me here a few days. I hate to say why, exactly, but I owe you something. I've just been so seriously strung out I haven't been myself. I couldn't think. I barely knew my own name. I forgot everything I care about, including this blog.
Even now it's coming and going -- I could black out at any moment -- but I'm fighting through the blank spots, and using what I have left of "my legendary discipline." That's right -- even if it seems an eternity ago -- I had legendary discipline. Now, I'm wasted. Nearly shot. Haven't even got the discipline to---- sorry, drawing a blank.
The sad truth is, I'm addicted to oatmeal. God, it feels good to admit it publicly! Of course the biggest problem with oatmeal is they came up with a way for a quick fix. Used to be it took 45 minutes or all the way up to 3 hours to cook a decent batch. I blame the microwave oven industry, because they made us impatient. In the old days, I'd cook a batch, eat it, and pass out before I could cook another. Now it's bang bang bang, three batches and one massive jag of craziness.
So I was almost out of oatmeal, OK? And I was already hopped up on two batches. It was 3 in the morning. I went out and couldn't tell, in my haze, if the grocery store was open or the lights were just in my head. I sat there hunched over the steering wheel, when ... Dammit! ... two or three guys identifying themselves as cops -- they had red lights -- pulled me out of my car.
And I lost my cool. I was all up in their face. "What gives, assholes?!" and it went downhill from there. They could tell I was out of it, but why? I told them the honest to God truth, "I'm an oatmeal addict and you got me ... looking for another fix."
"Oatmeal," the mean-looking one sneered. He and the other mean-looking one talked it over. "Obviously slang for some narcotic, but which one?" These geniuses were talking it over and I saw nothing but haze. Even their talk was haze. They radioed in, then a TV crew showed up and I stripped naked and was gang-tackled by all three mean-looking cops in the ditch. "Give me oatmeal!" I cried as they roughed me up.
Later, I woke up and saw the insides of a hospital, and these mean bastards were there to make sure I didn't snap the gurney straps. The doctor was running blood tests. He said my sorghum and honey counts were elevated out of this world, sweeteners of choice, and that, yes, I indeed had oatmeal in my system.
I couldn't control myself. I went from docile to manic to feverishly crazed in seconds -- the oatmeal high oscillated between utterly flabby weakness to concentrated super human powers. And I felt the powers kick in. Everyone backed up as I eviscerated that hospital room; thankfully, the cops didn't know if they should open fire in a hospital zone.
Going down the hall, my back flap open to the breeze, I made it most of the way to freedom, and was rounding the corner when the meanest-looking cop hit me with a poison dart, hit my butt, piercing one side then crossing over and piercing the other. A double whammy of poison! I woke up two days later, confined in a treatment center.
A Nazi psychiatrist -- this is how Hitler got his start -- swore his way up one list of deities and down another to compel me to talk. "Vhat ees dis 'ottmail' you be smoking!?" "Smoking Ottmail?" I asked, confused, the haze a constant. I passed out and dreamt a beautiful dream, of a Willie Wonka-like world, with rivers of oatmeal (beautiful), but also quicksand bogs (ugly). When Hitler himself appeared, his mustache disgustingly soaked in drippy cinnamon oatmeal-- I woke up.
I blinked a few times, very refreshed, my mind completely detoxed off oatmeal, and vowed to live a clean life. When they took me to breakfast and ignorantly served me oatmeal! Immediately hooking me again...
Using my powers, I killed everyone in my way, stole an armored car, and crashed the gate. Then at the grocery store, instead of parking, I crashed the car through the front windows, craving another box of oatmeal -- and this time -- Damn the World! -- I would eat it with whole milk!
Now I'm home and on my eighth bowl. I'm writing this -- maybe the final post ever on this blog -- with the bastards even now at the door. I fear I'll have to shed even more blood before I'm able to enjoy my oatmeal supper and retire for the night, perchance to dream.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
The Pink Professor and I bade a fond farewell today to the billionaire and Garrett Al. They're off on an extended honeymoon, and, frankly, aren't coming back, unless it's someday for a visit. The billionaire has exotic properties around the world, so of course he wants to treat his blushing new hubby well.
Life after a month of a whirlwind is slowing down. Pink was going by the university to try and get back on staff. Then he was going to check things at the bar, the Roadhog Roadhouse, and make sure everything was hunky dory. If it wasn't before, it will be with him there, him being a natural at keeping even a roughneck joint like that running smooth and pleasant.
That left me on my own, at loose ends, till I remembered some of my own responsibilities, including a brand new $20 million personal library on the west side of town! I know it's hard to believe I could forget something like that, but that's how crazy it's been. Also recall, I own a worm bedding company in Alabama, which also slipped my mind, but that sounds totally blah.
The library, though, I'm interested in. I've always had to make do with a few bookshelves around the house. But now, with this huge new facility, I'm rolling in space and shelves and books and all kinds of fun things. And I'm going to take advantage of it for my personal studies! And it won't really be for anyone else either, unless, sometime down the line, I bring in a "visiting scholar" for whatever reason. Maybe for some of my burning questions, like, How do you get to be a "visiting scholar"? I've gone by the nickname "Super Brain" for a long time and I've never visited anywhere.
But I will be "visiting" my own library, three floors, a basement, and stretched out width-wise too, pretty huge. Enough rooms that I can sit in one a day for an entire month and never run out! I have all my old books, probably around a thousand, then I have another thousand or so picked out from the Biggest Book Sale in the State, and from there, I shall build it into the greatest personal library in the world!
And, hey! There's something very "retro" about it that I'm going to do. This is exciting to me. The building will have no internet access. It's going to be like libraries in the old days. Anything I need to look up, I'll have to take the time to find it in a book. Frankly, I'm looking up too much stuff online, because I tend to have lots more questions when the answers are that close, that convenient. But this way, if I don't want to give the full commitment to find out about something, I'll just let it go.
When I'm done with my collection, why would I need the internet? I'm going to have a full set of every encyclopedia that's ever been published! We used to have the 1894 Britannica, and I learned more from those old books than I ever did in school. Except I had to be careful, because they go out of date fairly fast. That's why I need all the newer sets, too, to compare and contrast. But I can see myself maybe coming up with inaccurate information. Like, say, I want to know who's currently president. I can look it up in all the sets, then split the difference. It's Millard Calvin Ulysses S. Hoover John F. Nixon!
Of course the internet's good for one thing, definitely for sure, and that's wasting time. Such as Facebook, Twitter, and sites like that, and, as I well know, you can waste a lot of time writing blogs. I bet I messed around with this blog 60-75 hours this month, all this business with the billionaire, Geritol, Pink, and myself. Imagine, I could've spent that time reading about Siam. Or the Louisiana Purchase when it was the latest thing.
I'm stopping right now and putting my slippers and robe on and I'll be padding around this vast library. Full of echoes till I get it filled. I'm like a lonely Hugh Hefner figure here, except now I have books and shelves instead of bunnies.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
How do you like being invited into the bedroom of a couple bubbly newlyweds? It feels kind of funny that you're here, probably to you too, but since it was my idea, I guess I shouldn't complain. Anyway, don't touch anything. I don't know what The Pink Professor's packing, that is, in his luggage or what's in the dresser.
If I get chatty -- I'm try not to -- just remind me, There's places we shouldn't go, TMI! Really, though, we're all adults here, right? I wouldn't dare let anyone in under 18. Wouldn't want anything nasty to slip out -- accidentally or on purpose -- and damage their little ears! Like this pillow talk stuff. Which isn't meant to titillate -- honestly! -- but to inform. Really, to fill you in on mutual friends, since by now, we're all friends with the billionaire and his new husband Garrett Al (aka Geritol and Jor-el).
Last night was Pink's and my first official night here, but being longtime buds we have a lot of experience with this kind of chit chat.
Of course Pink wanted to know about me and the billionaire. Pink was in San Francisco when the billionaire showed up at the beginning of April. So what about us? Seriously, nothing happened! Yes, we were together so much that people seemed to think we were a couple. Like when we got the key to the city, even the mayor called us a couple! But it wasn't anything like that. He was just a very kind guy, and we hit it off like heart friends.
What about Garrett Al and the billionaire? They got close and I didn't even notice it for the longest time. I thought Geritol was maybe employed by the billionaire. But looking back, I'd guess Geritol was probably the aggressor in their relationship. The Pink Professor already knows how Garrett Al came on to me when we first met. Before he knows the boundaries, he tests them. The billionaire, being a straight ahead guy, no doubt liked his forwardness. Plus, remember, Jor-el is basically reformed and can be very charming.
Pink steered us to what could've been a sore point, a consideration of what to do with all our money. I said, "Well, it was a gift to me, but now that we're married, of course the assets belong to both of us." I figured Pink was not comfortable with that much money, close to $2.1 billion, plus it being a gift from the billionaire. But, really, it hasn't changed me in any way, except for that whole unpleasantness with the Biggest Book Sale in the State, when I wasted $10 million for 300,000 books. A real regret.
Pink broached the idea of us being generous with the money, to do good. Which is exactly what I love about him. He's the world's greatest optimist, and he has reason to be; he's seen much success in his work for other people's good. Obviously, I was agreeable. Selfishness with wealth is never really good. It can corrode your spirit and your feelings for community right away. On the other hand, waste not, want not. I sent $10 to the Cancer Society earlier this month, which ought to hold them a while.
Pink came up with an idea that's a great one, that we fund various programs on TV. I've always wondered what it'd feel like if they said your foundation sponsored the following program, like "Downton Abbey:" "This program was underwritten by a more-than-generous grant from the D.B. Kundalini and Pink Professor Foundation, who remind you, 'When in Mayberry, Gomer says Hey.'" We could have all kinds of cute ones. "This program was underwritten by an extraordinarily lavish grant from the D.B. Kundalini and Pink Professor Foundation, who want to give a shout out to the billionaire and his loyal spouse Garrett Al, aka Geritol and Jor-el." Then I'd hear from Geritol! "His loyal spouse?! You make me sound like a dog!" With the billionaire in the background, going, "Woof, woof!"
The Pink Professor asked me if I was still a big fan of Elvis. I smiled as if to say, 'Once a big fan, always a big fan.' "Of course I am. I dream of him almost every night, like always. But now that you and I are married, I promise not to!" He looked to see if my fingers were crossed, but since they weren't, I'm OK. Until I wake up singing "Hound Dog." But I might be thinking of Garrett Al...
Without giving too much away, it being our first night and all, I was very tired and wished him a good night. But I was suddenly roused to new life when I noticed ... feet on the ladder, coming down! "Mother!"
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
We have the world's greatest treat for you, as we near the end of this story. Which, as a story, now actually promises to go on and on, however many years of life we are granted, not just for The Pink Professor and me, but for our second happy couple, bubbling over for having finally discovered one another, the billionaire and Garrett Al (aka Geritol and Jor-el).
Old Maude, our kitchen help at the Roadhog Roadhouse was pure gold and true to her word, "With you guys' billions and my brains, we'll have the greatest double wedding this happy burg's ever seen!" Which was really saying something, because she's been around a long time. The historical society/museum has her out for special events, to share firsthand memories of the settlers who stole this land fair and square and proceeded to civilize it. (We made her the figurehead in charge, while the billionaire's people actually handled the massive arrangements.)
Festivities started at the courthouse, with Pink and I, and the billionaire and Geritol, holding up our marriage licenses for photographers and well-wishers. Next, we took our places in matching gold limousine convertibles, and with 100 motorcycles flanking us, biker friends from the bar, made our way slowly through town to the Roadhog Roadhouse. Workers, of course under Old Maude's supervision (wink wink), had the place so decked in flowers and ribbons, the breeze coming through made it like an optical illusion, the entire place in beautiful motion.
The official wedding ceremonies were quiet, traditional, and dignified. The billionaire and Jor-el took traditional vows. Garrett Al and I go way back, and as I watched him, I thought back to the early days, when he essentially molested me in my own yard. I was freaked out, but Geritol proved himself the truest friend in the years since, especially after he took on an extra-cosmic consciousness and began channeling (and identifying) with Jor-el, Superman's father on Krypton. The stories he can tell! And now here he is, a brand new wonderful chapter in his life, becoming the billionaire's husband. I'm very emotional -- this is true -- I had a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit and of course "something in my eye."
For Pink and myself, some of our extended biker family have various kids here and there around the county and neighboring areas, so a bunch of them were with us, walking slowly and dropping pink rose petals. The bikers were extremely proud. Then Pink, accompanied by his mother, and I, carrying my dog Roughage, my other best friend, proceeded down the aisle. We veered off, his mom standing proudly to the side, and Roughage was well-behaved while working over a bowl of beef jerky, and the minister reappeared.
a 14-piece pool cue, and how we avoided huge trouble thanks to The Pink Professor. My point got a little mixed up -- I couldn't remember if the guy started with the tip and worked down or the handle and worked up. But I worked it out in the end when I looked Pink in the eyes and said, "Life's like that 14-piece pool cue, sometimes the pieces come together just right. And that's our life together."
The schmaltz over, the rings, the kissing, and the rice, we all retired to the courtyard, where there were beer nuts and bar pickles in vast quantities. The billionaire had also spent a cool $6 million to bring in the professional roadshow of "Grease." When the troupe did an encore of "You're the One That I Want" and "We Go Together," the wedding party and all the guests were up, everyone shaking their respective booties, totally working it out.
Old Maude and I also got down for a while. She can dance! I congratulated her on a job well done.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Our happy ending hasn't ended yet. We've got a few more days of April and we're going to milk it for all it's worth. Anytime anyone's happy, that's what you should do, because sadness, heartache, and pain are looming in the future for all of us. But today we eat, drink, and be merry! Let's live it up in April, and ... let May take care of itself.
We pulled the blimp into the new blimp port on the west side of town, just north of my $20 million personal library. Townspeople were all around to welcome us back. There were huge cheers for the billionaire, bigger cheers for me, more subdued cheers for almost everyone else, then extremely huge cheers for The Pink Professor. He'd been gone so long, they couldn't help themselves.
Construction teams had erected bleachers and a platform so we could address the folks about our splendid journey to San Francisco. For my part, I read verbatim my blog posts for the last few days. There were lots of oooos and ahhhhs in the crowd and excitement was at a fever pitch, particularly on some of the more harrowing accounts, like when I had to climb up the blimp ladder backwards like a crawdad.
We then were off for a gala whirlwind reception at the downtown coffee shop. The shop belonging to the billionaire, the employees were glad to see him return in one piece, so they'd get their checks. Next we went to Patsy's Steakhouse, also owned by the billionaire. The steaks were great, and, like the coffee shop, there was real relief that the boss was safely back and able to pass out checks. Finally, toward mid-afternoon we were at the Roadhog Roadhouse, which, I believe, either I or the billionaire owns. (I just checked, and I personally am the owner of the Roadhog, according to the post, "The Bikers Bar Is Now Mine." The fact is, when you're a billionaire it's very hard to keep track of what you own.) The employees there were glad to see both of us, but it seemed like they assumed the billionaire owned it. That's OK with me, I've a forgiving guy; I wouldn't forget their paychecks over such an understandable slight.)
The Pink Professor, who worked at the Roadhog for several years, before his disappearance to San Francisco, got the biggest reception. The place erupted when I raised his hand in victory and we kissed. A few others came in from the back court and we had to repeat the scene. The place erupted again. Then a few stragglers, who'd been in the bathroom, came out and we had to repeat it again. Three kisses, three grand ovations! Then I started going, "Where the hell's old Maude?"
One of the cooks confides in me .... he didn't think Maude was all that cool about public displays of affection .... of a certain sort. I thought, "Oh, I get it."
Let me say something important here. The whole story this month, I've been told, hasn't had very many female characters or interaction. Yes, I mentioned my mother once or twice, and there was Patsy from the steakhouse. But by and large, it's true, it's been male-dominated. And while old Maude can't make up entirely for that lapse, certainly she's better than nothing. So we're going to bring her out, and put her on the spot, and see if we can bring her around to celebrate our love.
The whole place joined me in chanting, "Maude! Maude! Maude! Maude!" Finally, out she comes, and the place erupted. She was wiping her hands. "Yeah?" she deadpanned. I looked at her, as if to say, You're our treasure. She came over, then sensing The Pink Professor and I were about to kiss, leaned forward and we both "accidentally" kissed Maude's cheek instead.
Old Maude brought the place down when she wisecracked, "See, you two can kiss girls!"
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Of course I'm delirious with my good fortune to this point, having received back the missing piece of my soul, 7% of its total, lost in San Francisco in 1975. Then my delirium continued with my ecstatic reunion with The Pink Professor. To think we're back together again! ... My mind is totally blown! Then, as well, I've had the coolest, richest friend at my side, the billionaire! None of this could've happened without him, the financing alone would've staggered me. Cool dude! I'm about ready to explode if anything else cool happens; don't try me!
Everyone's looking at us -- me and Pink -- and wondering what's next? And how does the billionaire fit in this picture? Since, naturally, everyone thought that he and I would end up together; we've been joined at the hip all month, so that would've been a pretty good guess. Yeah, yeah, he's still in the picture -- I'll put all rumors to rest. He's still in the picture as a dear, dear friend. Who did for me so many things that blew my mind. The whole month's been a mind-blower!
I don't know what else I can say, though, without making everyone entirely jealous. Because I know, one guy's good news is a source of pain for everyone else. People would rather see you dead than think they themselves somehow missed out. How can this guy be so happy, while I sit here in my same old boring life, missing out on everything? I'm not going to ask for a show of hands, OK? Just know, I know that's how the world goes 'round. I've felt the daggers shooting my way since way back, like when the billionaire gave me the $2.1 billion. The cattiness I got, I shouldn't say anymore.
Let's face it, though, not everyone's going to live their lives in such a way as to please you. Still, I know, at some point I have to let this story subside into obscurity, because from your point of view, it's nothing but rubbing your face in it, if someone else is too fortunate. I get that, I took Psych 101. It's why you never hear much about the lives of billionaires. You may see in the paper that a billionaire donated money to a political candidate, but that's it. Where they live, what they do there, etc., the papers don't print that. They don't dare, or we'd cancel our subscription. The lives of quiet desperation we typically live, we don't want their good fortune to be an added burden.
With me, then -- in this story -- it was only adding insult to injury that barely anything went wrong. And that's what people want when they get their grubby paws on a story. A falling out, a sad ending, and for me, the hero, to slink away licking his wounds, to the general merriment of all, taking on myself the derision of my peers, one who aspired to heights above his abilities only to crash to earth according to the spirit of divine justice or karma. Since that didn't happen, What a trite story! I'm chuckling a little. A story like this can go that way, and for most of you that would've been satisfying. But what about me? Oh, I know, I committed the unforgivable sin of being so wealthy my success was guaranteed.
With that out of the way, allow me to continue---
We were so happy in San Francisco. The Pink Professor said goodbye to his underlings/students under the bridge. The billionaire spent close to $4 million tricking out The Pink Professor symbol on the blimp, adding my symbol to it, to portray my soul-completeness and the fact that we were wonderfully reunited, something to celebrate.
We headed for home, one of the world's first journeys of this sort where there was a crew of galley slaves and not a single man was lost. I was virtually certain a few of them at least would've gone AWOL in San Francisco, only to be found in a bathhouse. Am I right? I know if I was a galley slave reenactor and got a free ride to Frisco, I'd probably bale. The hell with diddling nothing but oars, am I right?
A little more happiness to lay on you: (If you're the extremely jealous type, don't read any further.) It's not in the picture, but the billionaire spent an additional $30 million, maybe $40 million, to rent 40 additional blimps (without galley slaves, which was cost-prohibitive) to accompany us as far as the Wyoming area. Also, he notified every biker bar between the coast and home to come out and wave at us. They know The Pink Professor; he's the sun, I'm the moon. And they definitely love him! So they're all out along our journey, throwing pretty petals high in the sky, a lovely sight.
I became so ecstatically happy, I had to go to my quarters, lie there and think, think, think about The Pink Professor, and thank my lucky stars, of which I saw quite a few.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
This whole thing, I could've set it to ABBA music, like Mamma Mia.
I recently got the box set of their CDs, and I'm in tears with almost every song -- as Agnetha, Björn, Benny, and Anni-Frid recall the various incidents in my life. My birth, "Take a Chance on Me." School: "On and On and On." The years of acne: "I Saw It in the Mirror." Adulthood: "Should I Laugh or Cry." And, of course, when I first met The Pink Professor: "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)." But in this present adventure, I've cued up one very special track...
The blimp's sound system blares forth the song "SOS" as we pass the mixmaster/tangle outside San Francisco, where I lost a piece of my soul in 1975, which in recent years drew The Pink Professor to it. So, yes! he's down there ... somewhere! We pass with searchlights invading, scattering about, and scouring the area, with our ladder dangling free in the breeze.
I can see a large group assembling, coming up from under the bridge, one by one, two by two, and others, with some going back down. Apparently underlings or students or devotees, certainly strays taken in by The Pink Professor, whose drive to nurture and mold character is strong wherever he goes. I can't wait to be with him again!
Our glad reunion is delayed, though, because turning the blimp around is not an easy thing to accomplish. I swear, we're about halfway to Hawaii before we've turned it around for a second pass. They might've prevented Pearl Harbor with nothing more than a blimp in the bay area on cruise control. We come back for another pass, and some of the underlings are once again out, but different ones. Then, in the long process of turning around again, I see the lights of Reno. Finally, we're back for another precious pass, and this time I behold the majestic figure of The Pink Professor, standing there tall, but waving us off, "No! No! Go away!"
I say to myself, "God bless him! He's so dedicated to his work, he's willing to sacrifice his own happiness." Out to sea we go again, back to the Hawaii area, with the Arizona memorial looking as beautiful as it did that first infamous day in 1941. Then we're back for another pass, but this time I've worked my way down the ladder and am hanging by my legs.
Maybe he actually wanted to stay there, but in an impulsive act, seeing my love was very thick -- thick as thieves -- the Pink Professor grabbed my arms and I managed to hold him as we passed Oakland. I have to confess, "Slipping Through My Fingers" ran through my fearful mind. But with an extraordinary effort he shimmied up my body and started up the ladder. Those on the massive vessel cheered us on. I, however, couldn't get myself turned around, so I was left with one dire option, to climb up backwards, like a crawdad.
Sounds impossible, I know, but they kept playing "SOS" and it gave me strength:
"When you're gone, though I try how can I carry on?"I love the driving guitar on that part; it gives me moves like Jagger. I'm telling myself, The love of your life is directly above you, climb with all your might, just as the crawdad makes his way under his rock, be it easy, be it hard. It's true, crawdads don't take days off. And like the post office, they simply aren't put off by the elements.
We docked for the night at the Transamerica Pyramid Center. If you know anything about San Francisco, it's a big building that tapers to a point, hence the name.
Friday, April 24, 2015
"Big blimps billow blissfully," I told myself last night as I tried to fall asleep. The galley slaves had climbed up into their quarters; without their rowing, of course, we couldn't make the same progress, but their argument was, 'We have to sleep, too.'
I lay awake on my cot, thinking of the weird confluence of past and present afoot in these strange days. We had narrowed it down to this fact, that the piece of my soul that I'd lost in San Francisco in 1975 was the center of the entire trip. I kept thinking back to my night there, under one of the highways, wondering what the morning would bring. I was hitchhiking out.
The soul split was unfortunate, and when morning came, close to 40 years ago, I should've looked for it more diligently. The truth is, I felt a distinct difference, but at that age how would I know how much soul I'd need? Or that decades later I'd have a friend and lover who'd obsess over it to the point of going there? I thought The Pink Professor was the perfect man -- and still do -- but, Get a calculator! Wouldn't it be smarter to stay home and enjoy 93% of my soul than leave to get by with 7%, or however much it was?
Now, of course, I realize soul splits can happen when you're confused, beset with worries, wondering about tomorrow, etc., "Oops, there goes another piece!" But as a kid you're dumb. You're immortal. You can always go to church and they'll give you 7%, or whatever, like a gas station. Little did I know, they're powerless to help you. If you feel your soul even appear to crumble, you deal with it right now; carry Super Glue if you have to...
So I spent that night clinging to my pack and possessions for comfort. And with morning, caught a ride. I spent the next night, a disastrous, cold night, outside Winnemucca, NV, and wasn't myself. I was totally freaked out when I crawled to the middle of a culvert under the highway and imagined scorpions and other animals crossing through there. It left me no choice -- split soul and all -- but to get out and spend the night wrapped in my space blanket, standing by the side of the road. A military general picked me up at daylight and said I looked like his son. He bought me breakfast and gave me $5.00. I have to wonder, if I'd had the rest of my soul, maybe I'd have gotten more.
Back to today, I knew at some point the blimp would be near Winnemucca. The memories of the old general are actually sweet ones, though by now he's probably dead, and his son old like me.
In other activity -- it wasn't all boring contemplation -- I tried one of the billionaire's other chamber suits -- this one meant to hone your mental acuity in the zero gravity chamber. My vision was sharp, hyper-realistic. I saw The Pink Professor, as in a musical, on his knees like Al Jolson, calling out to me, not "Mammy" but "Babyface!" Behind him was a large group of devotees, also calling out. I saw an underground shrine and a whole apparatus of devotion and sacrifice. The Pink Professor counseled two old derelicts, who were given an honored place in his group, the "Servants of the Beloved," the "Beloved" apparently being him, me, or 7% of my soul.
I shuddered and left the chamber. Because if one broken off soul shard is so important, I don't want to lose any more.